Creighton didn’t even want to be angry. But the thing about anger was that it didn’t need a reason. It lived inside him, waiting for the smallest spark to set it off.

It was the long hours at work, his boss talking to him like he was an idiot, the way the traffic crawled at a snail’s pace. By the time he stepped into the apartment, his jaw was sore from the effort of holding it all in. He wanted to let it go, and melt into the safety of your arms. But his anger didn’t work that way.

The sound of your laughter greeted him first. It should’ve been comforting, but instead, it grated against him like nails on a chalkboard. He loosened his tie, dropped his bag by the door, and tried to ignore it.

Then came the tapping. Rhythmic, persistent, sharp.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

It was coming from the kitchen, probably you drumming fingers against the counter without realizing it. It was insignificant, but at that moment, it was unbearable. He tried to hold it in. But tapping continued, and he could feel the tension in his chest tightening, ready to snap.

It wasn’t your fault. He knew that. But knowing didn’t make it stop.

He didn’t even remember what you said. Something small, something harmless. But it struck the wrong nerve, and before he knew it, the words were spilling out of him. The argument escalated too quickly. He slammed his hand against the wall, the force rattling the picture frames and silencing you mid-sentence. His other hand was pointed toward you, his finger inches from your face as words spilled out of him, each one louder than the last. Your wide eyes were locked on his, and for the first time, he saw something he never wanted to see in your gaze. Fear.

That’s when he realized his hand wasn’t empty.

It was wrapped around your wrist.

He froze, anger drained from his body, leaving suffocating shame in its place. His hand fell away from your wrist as he stumbled back, gaze locked on the faint red marks he’d left on your skin. Your name slipped from his lips, barely audible. A whisper. A plea. “{{user}}…”