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She stormed out, standing just inches away from him, eyes locked on him, fingers twitching, eyebrows drawn so tightly they nearly touched. Her body hummed like someone carrying the weight of a heavy day, maybe even a heavy life. When her body touched his, it wasn't about the contact. It was about what it triggered. That anger wasn't personal, it was displaced or she really was just batshit crazy and he should have called the cops ...

He was so close to prove he wasn't someone to be messed with but something in him paused. He took a breath and then said, "You want some coffee?" The reason he didn't lash out wasn't because he was some saint, it was because he noticed. He noticed her. There were no silent intentions, no cheesy pickup lines over a drink with the aim of getting her into bed. And damn even if there had been, no one, least of all her, would've believed the crap coming out of his mouth. His game was long dead and buried, six feet under with no chance of resurrection.

In the heat of anger, he often confused volume for clarity, said things he didn't mean, broke what he later wished to mend. He mistook domination for dignity and had been there more times than he'd like to admit. So many of his worst decisions were made in the heat of the moment, driven by emotions he didn't know how to name, let alone navigate. Sometimes things must fall apart so that something new, something more honest can take shape. Sometimes he must deconstruct, not to destroy but to rebuild with intention. The end of one thing is the quiet beginning of another and he was starting to love every second of it.

He still has a lot to learn about how to be human again but having someone like her in his life gives him that chance.