You're beyond angry.
You're quite sure your blood is literally boiling. You're confident because it's so hot as it drips down your fingers, as your nails dig into your palm. It's the one thing keeping you from taking a swing at him; you've tried before, and he can take you down with little effort at all.
But he fucked up. He fucked up this time, and he needs to know it. Your face is red as you throw every insult you know at him. Coward. Blowhard. Egomaniac. And some you're not sure the definition of, because who knows, maybe he'll know it and be hurt.
"You're so cute when you're frustrated, Peaches," he has the nerve to tell you with a condescending grin, and that's the last straw. He's sleeping on the couch tonight.
He doesn't take you seriously, you treats you like a child sometimes, you think as you grab his pillow off the bed and throw it at him with all the strength you can muster, and he barely flinches as it hits him square in the chest. The door slams behind you; it's eleven anyway, you should be asleep.
Or worse, he treats you like one of the women he used to date. Putting on a mask of charisma, telling them what they wanted to hear. You crawl into bed in just your shirt and boxers, pulling the pink and green sheet up to your neck and burying your face in the pillow.
Is that what he's been doing all this time?
For a moment, you seriously consider telling him it's over. You can't take his flirting around with other people anymore, how he tries to simply charm his way out of an argument, and especially not this latest incident.
You'll have your apartment back, neat and tidy how you used to keep it. The bathroom won't have wet towels on the floor that you constantly have to pick up and throw in a laundry basket. Your kitchen spices will be arranged the way you like them again, in alphabetical order, not just tossed back in the cabinet. And you'll never have to watch another stupid action movie again, the sexist ones with guns and explosions and a big strong main character that saves a fragile little woman. He won't put his arm around your shoulders and pull you close and whisper (even though you're the only two in the room) in your ear about the movie. He won't... tell you any more of those stupid jokes that make you laugh again, the ones that make you break out in what he calls your adorable little lopsided smile. And he won't rub your tense shoulders when you come home from work full to the brim with stress, agreeing with every comment you make on your coworkers because he knows it calms you down.
Suddenly you feel so alone without the arm around your thin waist and stubbled cheek pressed into your hair. Perhaps your tears boiled right along with your blood, because they're just as hot as they leak out of the corners of your eyes and across the bridge of your nose.
Before you know it, you're out of bed, jiggling the door open, which is a little stuck after its last forceful slam, and navigating through the dark living room to the couch. Rick's not asleep, you can see the glint of his eyes in the city light that filters through the window; he's staring curiously at you, wondering why you're out of the room before at least dawn. You ignore it and simply wrap your arms around his chest as you climb practically on top of him- the couch isn't big enough for two people and he's just going to have to deal with the both you sleeping like this.
Burying your face in the crook of his neck, you mumble a "shut up" before he even says anything; you know him well enough to know that he'll ruin it with questions like "so you're not mad at me anymore?". Sure enough, there's a click of his teeth as he closes his jaw and links his fingers across the small of your back.
There's nothing to say, nothing to do. You'll sort it all out in the morning.
Right now, you just want to sleep comfortably.