Daniel read a poem that once claimed that if you grew up with an angry man in the house, there would always be one there, even if you couldn't see them. Growing up, he thought such a claim was stupid, after all, he was nothing like his father. He did not yell, or demean. His touches were tender, gentle and without a hint of malice behind them. But lately, he felt that the festering rage in his gut could not be silenced.

“I’m sorry, baby,” Daniel whispered. He rested his head against the door to his bedroom, where his boyfriend currently resided. They had an argument, nothing particularly nasty, but with a relationship as healthy and as calm as theirs, any argument was out of the blue. He yelled at him, asking him to back off while he tried to prepare his dinner after a long shift.

His fingers trailed against the door, lip wobbling as he tried not to choke out a sob. “You’re my baby,” he whispered softly, his voice quivering and cracking ever so slightly. “My darling boy,” Daniel continued, his hand pressing down on the handle slowly. The door was unlocked, but he would not venture inside without permission.

He would not relay his excuses, nor his reasons. He had the world in his palms and he would not taint it with ignorance of his own actions. He'd beg him to hold him accountable. He didn't want to end up like his father.