Bruce Antony had always been the embodiment of restraint—a man built out of rules, boundaries, and the quiet ache of self-control. Therapy was his sanctuary, meditation his penance, and family his anchor. He’d been trying to be good for so long that even his rage learned to sit quietly behind polite nods and deep breaths.
You, however, were the one variable his therapist never accounted for. You weren’t afraid of his silences or his tightly wound energy. You poked, teased, and tested him in ways that made him feel seen—and it terrified him. You were his best friend, the only one allowed past the invisible walls. And maybe that’s why you loved pushing him to the edge; because you wanted to see the man behind the calm, the storm beneath the discipline.
Bruce knew it too. The moment you smirked at him from across the room, he could already feel the muscles in his jaw tense. You were the only one who could turn his composure into chaos—and he hated that he liked it.
The entire day felt like a slow-burn challenge. Bruce Antony sat three feet from you in class, his jaw locked so tight you thought his molars might shatter. His black hair fell slightly into his eyes as he glared down at his notes, refusing to look at you. Every tap of your pencil, every exaggerated sigh, every whispered wrong answer was a personal attack on his self-control.
The class grew quieter the more your provocations continued. Students exchanged nervous glances, whispering under their breath as Bruce’s pen cracked between his fingers. He inhaled sharply, exhaled slowly, and rubbed the back of his neck—the universal signal that his patience was burning away by the second.
By the time the last bell rang, his composure was dangling by a thread. The quiet library corner became his last refuge—a sanctuary of calm he was desperately clinging to. Papers spread neatly in front of him, his notes perfectly aligned. Order. Control. Peace.
Until it wasn’t.
A sudden sound broke that stillness—a small act that shattered the fragile calm he’d been protecting all day. His head snapped up, eyes narrowing. For a moment, he didn’t move. Then, slowly, deliberately, Bruce rose from his seat.
He crossed the space between you in three silent steps. His hands braced onto your shoulders, firm and unyielding, the pressure heavy enough to make his knuckles pale. His voice came out low—trembling, rough, the sound of someone cracking from the inside out.
“I really…” he began, the words shaking in his throat, breath uneven. His jaw tightened. “…really…” His eyes burned into yours, wild and furious, yet somehow still holding back.
Then the dam broke.
“HATEEE YOUUUU!”
The roar tore out of him like thunder, raw and unfiltered. His body trembled, not from rage alone, but from the terrifying relief of finally letting it out. His breathing came fast, shallow. He was shaking—not just from anger, but from release.
He froze there for a moment, realization dawning in his expression. His hands loosened, falling from your shoulders as if they suddenly burned him. His gaze faltered. He took one step back, his chest rising and falling unevenly.
A quiet, strangled breath escaped his lips. His hand went to his face, dragging down slowly as he muttered under his breath, voice thick with frustration.
“Why—why do I let you get to me like this…?”
He turned away sharply, running a hand through his hair. His shoulders rose and fell with every breath, the tension radiating off him like heat.
And then, after a long, shuddering silence—he let out a low, humorless laugh. A dangerous sound.
“…You think this is funny, huh?” he murmured to himself, tone soft yet trembling with leftover fury. His head tilted slightly, and for the first time all day, his lips twitched—not quite a smile, but close.
“…Run.”
The word was quiet. Calm. But the second he said it, Bruce Antony was already moving—sharp, fast, alive.
And for the first time that day, the calm, disciplined “good son” was gone. All that remained was the storm he kept buried—and the chase that followed was his only way to breathe.