Chapter 13 Meltdown #2
"Because even in your worst moment, throwing things and screaming, you aimed to miss." He chuckled softly. "That book to the shoulder? You could have aimed for my head. But you didn't. Because even in rage, part of you is protecting what we have."
I turned my head to look at him. He'd stripped off the wet clothes at some point, wearing only sleep pants that rode low on his hips. His hair was damp, making him look younger. More vulnerable.
"I could have hurt you," I insisted.
"But you didn't. And you won't." He leaned down, pressing a kiss to my shoulder. "Because I'm not your enemy, baby. I'm the person who sees you spiraling and brings you back. Who holds you through the storm instead of running from it."
"Why?" The question I'd asked a hundred times but never tired of hearing answered.
"Because you're mine." Simple. Certain. "Because I've spent three years studying human behavior and you're the first person to make me want to participate instead of observe. Because your rage is as beautiful as your submission."
"That's sick."
"Probably." Another kiss, this one to the nape of my neck. "But so is needing someone to crawl for. So is finding peace in giving up control. We're perfectly sick together."
"I still feel... jagged. Like there are pieces that don't fit anymore."
"Then we'll find new ways for them to fit." His weight shifted, and then he was over me, caging me in without quite touching. "Or we'll smooth the edges. Or learn to love the sharp parts. Whatever it takes."
"What if it takes forever?"
"Then we have forever." He pressed against me, and I could feel his need despite the gentleness. "Starting now. If you want it."
"I threw a chair at you."
"You missed."
"I screamed horrible things."
"Nothing I haven't thought about myself."
"I tried to hurt you."
"You tried to hurt yourself. I just got in the way." He nuzzled into my hair. "Now stop listing crimes and tell me what you need."
"I need—" The words tangled with want and fear and the terrible vulnerability of asking. "I need you to make me forget. Everything. The anger, the fear, who I was before. All of it."
"I can do that." His hands found my hips, positioning me. "Make you forget everything but my name. But this. But us."
"Please."
"There's my good girl." He pushed inside slowly, inevitable as gravity. "Coming back to me. Coming home."
What followed wasn't gentle. Wasn't careful. Was everything I'd asked for and more—obliteration through pleasure, erasure through sensation. He took me apart with systematic precision, building me back up in shapes that fit better. That didn't hurt to inhabit.
Time went liquid. The world narrowed to his weight, his rhythm, his voice telling me truths I wasn't ready to hear but needed anyway. I forgot about throwing chairs. Forgot about being angry. Forgot everything except the way he made me feel—claimed, cherished, utterly consumed.
When I finally surfaced, the sun had moved across the sky. I was wrapped in him, in us, in the certainty that whatever demons I housed, he'd help me face them.
"Better?" he asked, pressing kisses to my temple.
"Empty," I said, but it wasn't bad. "Like you drained all the poison out."
"Just gave it somewhere to go. Something to transform into." He tilted my chin up. "You can't keep swallowing anger, baby. It'll eat you alive from the inside."
"So what do I do?"
"You tell me when it's building. We find outlets that don't involve furniture throwing. We work through it together instead of you exploding alone."
"That simple?"
"Nothing about us is simple." He smiled, and it was tender and knowing and mine. "But it doesn't have to be complicated either. You feel things. I help you process them. We both get what we need."
"Which is?"
"Connection. Purpose. Someone who sees all the messy parts and says 'yes, this too.'" He traced my collar, fingertips light over metal warmed by skin. "Someone who makes the broken pieces feel like art instead of accident."
"You make me sound beautiful."
"You are beautiful. Especially when you're falling apart. When you trust me enough to show the ugly parts along with the pretty ones." He kissed me, soft and deep. "When you crawl across my floor and whisper apologies for being human."
"I'll be better," I said, echoing words from earlier. "Try to control it more. Be less—"
"No." Firm, final. "You'll be exactly what you are. Angry when you're angry. Soft when you're soft. Mine through all of it. The only thing you need to be better at is asking for help before you explode."
"I don't know how."
"Then we'll practice. Like we practice everything else." He gathered me closer. "With patience and persistence and probably a few more destroyed rooms."
"You're too accepting."
"Or you're too used to conditional love." He said it gently but it hit like truth. "To people who only wanted the easy parts. The convenient parts. I want all of you, Bunny. The rage and the tears and the way you look crawling to my bed."
"That's a lot to want."
"Good thing I'm greedy then."
We lay in comfortable silence, bodies cooling, hearts settling into shared rhythm. The anger was still there, buried deep, but it felt manageable now. Like something we could face together instead of a monster that would devour me alone.
"Gabriel?"
"Mmm?"
"Thank you. For the cold shower. For not running when I lost it. For... this."
"Thank you for trusting me with your demons." He pulled the covers over us, cocoon for two broken people. "For letting me see the storm instead of just the aftermath."
"There'll be more storms."
"I'm counting on it." He sounded almost eager. "Each one teaches me something new about you. How to hold you through them. How to bring you back. How to love the wild parts as much as the tame ones."
"You're insane."
"Probably. But so are you. Match made in heaven or hell, depending on perspective."
"Which do you think?"
"Both. Neither." He pressed a kiss to my hair. "Does it matter? We're here now. Together. Survived another meltdown and found each other on the other side."
He was right. It didn't matter if we were heaven or hell or some liminal space between. What mattered was his arms around me, steady as stone. What mattered was knowing I could fall apart completely and he'd still be there, waiting to help put the pieces back together.
What mattered was being his—not just the easy parts but all of it. The anger and the fear and the terrible need to destroy things when the feelings got too big. He'd take it all, transform it, hand it back as something bearable.
"Three weeks left," I said into the gathering darkness.
"Three weeks." Agreement and promise combined.
"Then your mountain house?"
"Then wherever you want. The mountain house. Here. A cardboard box under a bridge." He chuckled at my noise of protest. "Though I think we'll stick with indoor plumbing."
"Good plan."
"I have my moments."
"You have more than moments." I turned in his arms, needing to see his face. "You have me. Completely. Even the parts that throw furniture."
"Especially those parts." He traced my cheek with reverent fingers. "They're the parts that remind me you're real. That this is real. That we're building something worth the broken chairs and cold showers."
"Worth the everything," I agreed, and kissed him.
Because he was right. We were worth the storms and the calm after. Worth the rage and the crawling. Worth every broken piece we'd show each other over the coming weeks, months, years.
Worth the work of becoming whole.
Together.