The pan of pasta and sauce hit the floor, geysering a splash of red across counters and floor.
“Dammit!”
Steve stared at it, at the dinner he’d made for him and Ray, at the only dish in his life he’d succeeded at not burning, and warred with reigning his emotions. His instinct was to kick the mess, to pick it up and throw it, smashing the pan against every and all surfaces.
A piece of rationale that managed to maintain a home in his mind reared through his destructive instincts, tempering the reaction that would have only made it worse. Instead, he stood still, tension radiating through him, envisioning the destruction his ego desired. He couldn’t find it in himself to clean it up, but neither was he spurned to compulsive damage.
He’d stayed away from the subjects for days. Five, to be
