Wheedle

She slammed the door, ignoring his threats. Angry shouts became desperate pleas as she walked past his window, but she paid those even less heed. He always changed his tune when the stakes got too high.

She turned left into the park without even thinking. Almost as once she felt the tension drain out of her, and the anger, the hurt. She knew it was only a temporary fix, but some relief was better than none. The park always wheedled it out of her this way, no matter how foul her mood, how determined she was to stay mad.

So she would stya here instead, linger until the stars came out, and until he went to bed. Only then could she return. Only then could she forgive. Or pretend to.