My hands—calloused, scarred—were made for chaos.
For fighting it. Containing it. Dragging it off people who didn’t deserve it.
My body? A scrapbook of old wounds, covered in ink and pretty lies.
A canvas of bad decisions.
Mom called it expression.
Dad called it discipline.
I called it survival.
Now, I just sit here, staring at her—this woman who sleeps through my static—and I think, maybe Braden was right.
Maybe I’m not broken.
Just…bent...twisted.
While the peace lasts—while this woman sleeps with her copper hair fanned out like fire, body tucked beneath the mercy of the duvet—I take a slow breath. Steadying myself.
Because the fucked-up thing is…this feelsnice.
Christ. It feelsgood.
I was raised on noise and fists and broken glass.
Don’t showweakness. Don’tcry. Don’tfeel.
Guess what? Didn’t stick.
Now I’m a walking cartoon of a man. A certified Looney Tune.
Bonafide Bugs Bunny with trauma.
The storm inside me starts to rise, hot and familiar. My fist almost clenches, that urge crawling up my throat—howl at the moon, punch a wall, break something before it breaks me. But my hand’s tangled in her hair.
So instead, I breathe.
In for four.
Hold for four.
Out for four.
Hold again.
Yeah. Magic fucking box breathing.
Just like that, the noise quiets.
The inner shit shuts the fuck up.
The outer shit backs off.
My freakout takes a coffee break.
I can think again.
