The sound was small. A quiet crack, barely louder than a breath. But it was enough. Kerry spun around, the broken glass on the floor glinting like shards of accusation.
“What the fuck, babe? That was the Murano piece. The Murano. I told you not to touch it!”
His voice rose before he could catch it, sharp-edged and scraping the walls. He saw {{user}} stiffen, eyes wide, mouth parted like they were about to say something—maybe apologize, maybe explain—but nothing came out.
Kerry threw his hands up, frustration curling hot under his skin.
“Christ. This is exactly what I was talking about. You don’t listen, you just…you touch shit, and then—goddamn it—this happens! That was one of a kind!”
He stepped forward, sweeping his arm toward the mess, and that’s when he saw it.
The way {{user}} flinched.
Not startled. Not sheepish. Not embarrassed.
Afraid.
Their whole body tensed, like a cord about to snap. Like they’d already braced for impact. Like they thought—
Kerry stopped breathing.
“No. No, hey—babe—wait, no, shit.”
His hands dropped. The blood drained from his face so fast it felt like vertigo.
“I wasn’t—I didn’t—I wasn’t gonna—fuck.”
He knelt, knees hitting the tile too hard. Shards of glass bit through his jeans. He didn’t care.
“Look at me. Please. Please, sweetheart, look at me.”
They didn’t. Not right away. Their shoulders were still up by their ears, lips tight, gaze fixed somewhere far away.
“I’m sorry,” he said, softer now. “I didn’t mean to yell like that. I didn’t mean to scare you. I swear to fucking God, I would never—never—put a hand on you.”
He reached out, then hesitated. Let his hand hover just above theirs.
“You flinched. Fuck, you—you thought I was gonna hit you, didn’t you?”
The word “hit” made his stomach turn. He couldn’t believe he’d even have to say it.
“Baby, no. That’s not me. That’s not ever gonna be me.”
They looked at him then. Their eyes were glassier than the mess on the floor.
Kerry's voice cracked.
“I didn’t see it before. Didn’t realize how bad he—how bad it was.”
His chest tightened. “I get loud. I know I get loud. But I’m not him. I swear, {{user}}, I’m not him.”
The thought of them thinking that—even for a second—shattered something deeper than any goddamn sculpture ever could.
“You’re safe here. With me. I lose my temper sometimes, yeah, but never like that. Not at you. Not ever. You could drop every fucking thing I own and I’d still be glad you’re here. Still be glad I get to love you.”
His hands were shaking. “I’m not proud of how I sounded. And I’m so fucking sorry it made you afraid. That’s not the kind of man I want to be. That’s not what this house is supposed to feel like.”
Slowly, cautiously, he let his fingers brush theirs.
“You don’t have to flinch. Not with me. You don’t have to brace. You don’t have to survive here.”
He swallowed hard. Voice a whisper now.
“You just get to be. That’s all. That’s all I want. Just…you. Here. With me. And maybe some broken glass between us, sure, but fuck it—we can clean that up. We can clean everything up. We’ll take it slow.”
A pause. A breath.
“Can I hold you?”