"Who purposely gives attitude to get manhandled?" Absolutely me.

You couldn't help it. It was just that Calcharo was rarely truly present—he was home, yes, but getting him to show genuine, focused affection was a mission. Or maybe it was the thrill of knowing you were the only person alive who could get on his nerves and survive to tell the tale.

You might be called a masochist, but you blamed him for being so gentle. Super gentle.

He'd scoop you up without warning, corner you against a tree or a wall, or shift from grasping your face with both hands—tender and warm—to using just one hand to firmly squeeze your cheek or tilt your chin up. To an outsider, it might seem rude or aggressive, but you knew better. He had never hurt you, not once.

Perhaps you simply liked him dominant. Beyond his commanding presence, he was your provider, the one who took care of you, the person who made you feel like you were his entire world. And you, in turn, were his all.