Even as he opened the door and slipped into the dark room, Ben wasn't really sure why he was back. He certainly didn't want to be here. He'd been gone two nights and two days, and during that time he hadn't come up with any actual solutions or strategies for moving forward. None that were viable, anyway. He hadn't been joking when he'd written to Art that he was considering faking his death, because at the moment that had seemed like the best possible scenario for him moving forward. He couldn't divorce her and he couldn't abandon her, not without sacrificing any shred of his reputation and his former life that he (with the help of Aldous and his family) had been able to salvage so far. Melody was connected, at this point, to everything that he had left — if he left her, he left everything.

At this point, however, he didn't know how staying could be an option. During their last fight, he hadn't even felt like she'd heard him. If she didn't understand why he was angry now — honestly, if she hadn't understood that even before he'd tried to articulate it, based on their recent history — where were they supposed to go from here? She wasn't going to get any better, moving forward. This was just how she was; she made decisions in a panic without even thinking about running them by him first. If he stayed, this was just how things were going to be. How could he live like that? Never knowing what his wife might be doing behind his back? Constantly trying to just catch up and mitigate the damage as best as he could after the fact?

She had no respect for him — that was the problem. She'd told him she loved him, the night they'd gotten married, and maybe she did — but the two didn't necessarily go hand in hand, as he'd learned. Melody didn't respect him, and he had no idea how to make her respect him. This relationship was, as far as he was concerned, absolutely doomed.

But he couldn't stay out forever. Even in such a dire situation, he couldn't drink indefinitely — and he desperately needed to change his clothes. He was sober when he walked in, but you'd never know it from the smell of him. He couldn't go back to his clients reeking of cheap (non-Jewell) liquor, and if he didn't go back to work, he was going to run out of money — and he didn't think the bar that had been more or less his constant residence for the past forty-eight-odd hours would be quite as hospitable when he could no longer pay.

He was hoping that she would be asleep when he came in. He wasn't sure he was ready to talk to her. Unfortunately, it didn't seem like he'd have a choice; he'd woken her up with his fumbling in the dark. Shit.

"Lumos," he muttered after a half-second's pause. No use standing around in the dark if she already knew he was here. Wand tip now illuminated, he moved far enough into the room to sit at one of the dining room chairs and looked over at her in the shadows, but said nothing.