He showed up at my door vibrating.
Not angry – worse. Restless. The coiled, buzzing energy of a man who'd spent a week being investigated for something he didn't do and had just been cleared by a system that shouldn't have doubted him in the first place. His jaw was tight. His hands were opening and closing at his sides. His eyes had that flat, dangerous look – the one that usually preceded a fight or broken furniture or s*x rough enough to leave marks on both of us.
I knew what he wanted. Could read it in every line of his body – the need to hit something, f**k something, burn the energy out before it burned him from the inside. The old pattern. The one we'd been running since the beginning. Anger to contact. Contact to collision. Collision to the temporary silence that felt like peace
