"Because even in your worst moment, throwing things and screaming, you aimed to miss." He chuckled softly. "That book to the shoulder? You could have aimed for my head. But you didn't. Because even in rage, part of you is protecting what we have."
I turned my head to look at him. He'd stripped off the wet clothes at some point, wearing only sleep pants that rodelow on his hips. His hair was damp, making him look younger. More vulnerable.
"I could have hurt you," I insisted.
"But you didn't. And you won't." He leaned down, pressing a kiss to my shoulder. "Because I'm not your enemy, baby. I'm the person who sees you spiraling and brings you back. Who holds you through the storm instead of running from it."
"Why?" The question I'd asked a hundred times but never tired of hearing answered.
"Because you're mine." Simple. Certain. "Because I've spent three years studying human behavior and you're the first person to make me want to participate instead of observe. Because your rage is as beautiful as your submission."
"That's sick."
"Probably." Another kiss, this one to the nape of my neck. "But so is needing someone to crawl for. So is finding peace in giving up control. We're perfectly sick together."
"I still feel... jagged. Like there are pieces that don't fit anymore."
"Then we'll find new ways for them to fit." His weight shifted, and then he was over me, caging me in without quite touching. "Or we'll smooth the edges. Or learn to love the sharp parts. Whatever it takes."
"What if it takes forever?"
"Then we have forever." He pressed against me, and I could feel his need despite the gentleness. "Starting now. If you want it."
"I threw a chair at you."
"You missed."
"I screamed horrible things."
"Nothing I haven't thought about myself."
"I tried to hurt you."
"You tried to hurt yourself. I just got in the way." He nuzzled into my hair. "Now stop listing crimes and tell me what you need."
"I need—" The words tangled with want and fear and the terrible vulnerability of asking. "I need you to make me forget. Everything. The anger, the fear, who I was before. All of it."
"I can do that." His hands found my hips, positioning me. "Make you forget everything but my name. But this. But us."
"Please."
"There's my good girl." He pushed inside slowly, inevitable as gravity. "Coming back to me. Coming home."
What followed wasn't gentle. Wasn't careful. Was everything I'd asked for and more—obliteration through pleasure, erasure through sensation. He took me apart with systematic precision, building me back up in shapes that fit better. That didn't hurt to inhabit.
Time went liquid. The world narrowed to his weight, his rhythm, his voice telling me truths I wasn't ready to hear but needed anyway. I forgot about throwing chairs. Forgot about being angry. Forgot everything except the way he made me feel—claimed, cherished, utterly consumed.
When I finally surfaced, the sun had moved across the sky. I was wrapped in him, in us, in the certainty that whatever demons I housed, he'd help me face them.
"Better?" he asked, pressing kisses to my temple.
"Empty," I said, but it wasn't bad. "Like you drained all the poison out."
"Just gave it somewhere to go. Something to transform into." He tilted my chin up. "You can't keep swallowing anger, baby. It'll eat you alive from the inside."
"So what do I do?"
"You tell me when it's building. We find outlets that don't involve furniture throwing. We work through it together instead of you exploding alone."
