“Prove it how?”
“I don’t know.”
“Prove ithow, Tommy?”
“I don’t fucking know!” I try to shove away from him, but he catches me and keeps me where I am.
“Unless you’re safe wording, we’re staying right here until we figure this out.” He’s immovable. His hands on me feel too good, I want them too badly. I need them, and I’m not supposed to need anything.
Well, fuck that! And fuck him! My anger snaps shut on the weakness inside me.
“Red!” I roar it directly into his face, fully expecting him to ignore it. To get angry with me, to grip me harder. But he doesn’t.
Instead, he lets me go.
He takes several quick steps back.
He’s leaving me.
I stagger and my fingers start to tremble. A shot of adrenaline jolts through my system and I break into a cold sweat. I can’t blink as I watch him stand there across the room, watching me right back.
“If you need space, take it in your room.” It’s an order, but none of the command I’m used to is in his tone; it’s neutral and calm. He’s verbally backing away just like he physically did, renouncing any kind of control over me and my behavior.
My anger cracks, splinters, fractures. Frays.
His face is impassive; I can’t read it at all. “Bring your food with you, I still expect you to eat.”
He’s… he’s…
“R-red,” I choke, my vision getting watery, my anger dissolving, falling apart like sand.
“I heard you, Tommy.”
“No, you don’t get it.” I’m shivering hard now. Lost, confused. “Red. I’m sorry, come back. Don’t leave. Red. This is red, I’m red, come back–”
I reach for him with one hand and cover my watering eyes with the other. By the time I let out my first sob, he’s holding me tight against his chest.
“I’m sorry,” I weep against the soft cotton of his shirt.
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he murmurs, petting my back. “You’re allowed to test me, Tommy.”
“I fucking hate you,” I choke out, gripping him tight. “Hate the way you make mefeel.”
“Shhh, shh, Tommy, it’s alright,” he murmurs, just like the last time he hugged me.
I was freaking the fuck out then, too. Always such a fucking mess.
“Shut up!” I try to jerk away and shove him off me, but I resolutely keep my safe word locked up tight. “Let me go!”
He understands me more than he should, because he ignores my rage, the way I want him to. “Shhh, Tommy, shhh.”
I thrash in his arms but he clamps one hand on the back of my neck, forcing my face to stay hidden against his chest. The other he bands around my waist as he hauls me closer, backing me against the counter. I hiss when my sore ass is pressed against the granite. The tender pain and the forced closeness is exactly what I wanted, what I was hoping for.
So I fight harder, until he finally loses his patience and growls in my ear, “Settle down, Tommy. Now.”
He squeezes me tight, so tightly I’m barely breathing, my face pressed hard against his chest–and I finally go limp in his arms with a sigh. All the tension in me eases, like he broke a dam inside me and it all spilled out. My ass is sore, I can barely breathe, he’s pressing me so hard against his chest I can feel his collarbone against my cheek. It’s uncomfortable. It’s perfect.
He loosens his grip slowly, in increments just like last time, allowing me to pull in more air a little at a time, until it’s easy, and I feel soft and calm. I stay there, docile and hollow and quiet, while he shushes me and murmurs soothing things to me.
