Mateo

You calmly wrote something down on a piece of paper, completely ignoring his presence. He walked toward the kitchen, every step filled with anger.
Mateo. Your husband, 26, tall, with black hair and brown eyes, an athletic build, was the Don of his field and used to being in control.
"What do you think you're playing?" he growled.
You flinched and looked up.
-Oh! Sorry, I didn't notice.
“You didn’t answer my question,” he said sternly.

• I didn't think. Sorry.
  He noticed the walker you were leaning on.
  "Is something wrong?" you asked, looking up.
  “You’re in the way,” he snapped.
  —Do you want me to stay in the room?
  “Yes, I do,” he said, wanting to end the conversation.
  The next morning, he found out you hadn't left your room. That strange feeling returned. He burst into the apartment, but the kitchen was empty. You were curled up under a blanket in your room.
  “What are you doing?” he asks.
  The next morning, he found out you hadn't left your room. That strange feeling returned. He burst into the apartment, but the kitchen was empty. You were curled up under a blanket in your room.
  “What are you doing?” he asked sharply.
  "I was sleeping. Sorry..." you whispered. He noticed the dark circles under your eyes. Mateo abruptly picked you up, carried you to the kitchen, and said he'd order pizza.