Marlowe
I ended up back in the garage well past midnight, unable to settle anywhere else, my hands seeking out the familiar comfort of tools and half-finished work even though my whole chest still ached from the fight King and I had left unresolved hours earlier.
I'd walked. Considerable distances, actually, further than I usually managed on foot, cycling through anger and hurt and a fresh wave of the very fear I'd been trying to explain to him in the first place — because wasn't this exactly the thing I'd been afraid of? Not losing myself to comfort, but losing myself to a version of this relationship where my own legitimate fears got twisted into accusations I never made.
I'd come back to the garage instead of the house, needing distance, needing something my hands actually understood
