You reach the house and you feel your stomach sink with every yard your drive way brings you closer to your white house with the picket fence and the immaculate facade.

You climb out of your car and close the door. You go to your trunk and start to unload your stuff when you hear footsteps on the gravel. You lift your head and see Ian storm in your direction with an expression of excruciating concern and shame.

"Sweetheart! There you are! I was so worried! I'm so sorry about our fight, baby! Here, let me help you."

Ian's all about pictures. Now he is the picture of the perfect, worried husband. You just stand there motionless while Ian grabs the bag you hold in your limp fingers.

"Sweetheart? Are you alright? Come inside. It's freezing out here."

You still don't move. You struggle to open your mouth to say this one word. This one word that will free you, once and for all. Divorce. Then you feel a warm hand on your back that ushers you inside. Warm air that smells like home envelopes you and your brain feels hazy. Your mouth is dry.

"Do you want some tea, love?", Ian asks as if he could read your mind.

You manage to nod. You still haven't said a word. Your mind is too quiet and too loud all at once. You want this one word to be the first to say to him, but fear chokes you into obedient silence.

You are afraid of what Ian will do if you say the word. You are afraid that he won't let you go. At the same time you are afraid that he will. This is your life and everything is about to change.

Ian comes into the living room with a steaming cup of tea. You take it and blindly sit down on the couch. Silence. Even Ian doesn't fill the room with mindless excuses or random babbling.

"Ian." You manage to croak. Now or never.

He looks up to you. His eyebrows lifted upwards in a worried expression. A caring line around his plumb lips. Rain cloud eyes speak of love and trust. An illusion you tell yourself. But you can't help the warm feeling that crawls up your chest. After the long hours of fear and loathing you want nothing more than to feel normal. To feel loved. But he doesn't love you. He can't after what he did. But still.

He wraps an arm around you and you sink into his familiar warmth. WEAK. The voices inside your head are screaming all at once or in a circular canon you can't make it out. The echoes are overlapping and deafening.

"I missed you." He whispers gently.

You feel sick. Your eyes fall towards the blue imprints on your bare wrists. You ball your fists and stand up. Ian is not this illusion of a fairy tale husband. He is the guy who keeps beating the shit out of you and who just tiptoed on the line to rapist bastard. Come on you stupid weak piece of shit. Grow a pair!

You start to shake violently, Ian's gaze still shows nothing but honest worry. Your heart beats erratically. Your face feels hot. Your stomach is heaving and saliva is pooling in your mouth. You whirl around and run towards the bathroom.

You lean your forehead against the cool tiles and wipe your mouth. The shaking is more prominent now. Then you hear the bathroom door open and the quiet swatting of bare feet against the tiled floor. Gentle fingers stroke your hair back. Your eyes flutter shut.

"What's wrong, love?"

You nearly chuckle at the sheer ridiculousness of the question. Everything of course. How can he be so oblivious? Or how can he pretend to be so oblivious and not buckle under the weight of his false innocence? Your lips manage to curl upwards into a grimace that doesn't really resemble the sarcastic smile you had in mind.

"What's wrong." You repeated emotionlessly.

He gives you a confused glance. God! How could he act like that?

"Yes, love. You seem to be sick. What's wrong?"

"You hit me." You finally choke out. It's not what you really wanted to say. But you can't say the r-word yet.

"Yes, and I'm deeply sorry for that. You just provoked me so badly, love. I know you were drunk but you said really hurtful things to me."

You nod unconsciously, because you know that your drunk ass ran right into that fight with your head held high. He smiles when he sees you nod.

"But that still doesn't make it right, Ian."

"I know. I know." He lifts your chin so you can look into his sorrowful grey eyes. You used to love this gesture. His eyes don't have a glint of the twisted sickness he let peak through two nights ago.

"I will make it up to you. Please forgive me. You are everything to me."

The urge to laugh rises in your chest again when he actually lets one single tear roll down his handsome features. But you just rub your face fiercely and take a deep breath. Trying to escape the jumbled emotions, trying to restore the clearness you had before he messed with your head. You can't. It's all mixed up. Disgust and attraction. Fear and trust. Loathing and love.

"I can't do this right know, Ian. I'm going to bed. Please keep out of the bedroom." You know that he will grant you every wish you utter right now. So you stand up and walk out of the room without giving your husband a second glance.

You sleep in peace in your own bed without Ian anywhere to be seen. You don't even know if he spent the night at home. You get up and are pleased to notice that you can move your body more freely now. In the bathroom you look at your face in the mirror. It still shows signs of Ian's abuse. Your lower lip is a bit thicker than it usually is, your right eye a little smaller. The light green around that eye still visible in the right light. But gladly it's nothing a little make up won't fix. So you decide to go to work. Maybe this will calm your racing mind.

You call the office that you will be in today and look for your most professional looking suit. Your steel armor. It makes you invincible. When you are pleased with your make up you walk determinedly out the door. Head high, shoulders back, eyes straight, power walk.

When you reach the chancery you feel calm and self confident. You smile at the receptionist who looks confused at the sudden affection. You just walk by and climb the stair to your office. You also smile at your secretary. But Mrs. Randall, the old witch, just narrows her eyes at you in suspicion. You feel her scrutinizing your face and you turn away hastily. Suddenly not so sure if you actually did such a great job with your make up.

"Good morning." You murmur significantly less enthusiastic and hurry into your office.

The day is slow, the cases hopeless, the clients frustrated. You get screamed at by 2 clients and your boss. You sit in your office, your head on a file about a commercial criminal case, your eyes closed. That's when you hear someone cough. Your head shoots up and your eyes fly open. Leaning against your doorframe is a man with sandy blonde hair, striking blue eyes and a strong jaw, watching you amusedly. Stuttering you adjust your jacket and sit up straight. He smiles. It's a nice smile. All white teethes and dimples.

"Hi. I'm Tobias Cavanaugh."

A.N.: Hey guys. Long time no see. Sorry about that. Also sorry about Spencer's indecisive ass. I know, I hate me too. But hey: Toby's handsome face will make up for that, ya? And maybe he will give our gal a little motivation. Got a few chapters ready, so the wait for the next won't be too long. Get ready for a cheeky Mr. Chavanaugh next week folks :)
Review and let me know what you think.

Loveballs, P.Z.