He’s trying to soothe with his tone, but his words are not helping. His submissive pose and pleading cute boy face, the one he pulls out whenever he’s pissed me off. None of that is helping him, especially when I know him well enough to know it’s all an act. He is saying what he thinks will smooth my mood and pat down my ruffled feathers.

King of all assholes.

I storm from the shelves before I get the urge to throw something at him and grab a throw pillow from the couch instead. It’s made from some sort of fur, like real fur, flat, smooth rawhide fur, and I grimace as I touch it. It’s awful, and I am such an anti-real fur!

I turn and throw that at him in disgust instead, trying to vent some of this spiraling energy inside of me that’s fit to burst out. He dodges and frowns, still trying not to smile, and I do not see what is funny about this. I never understood his infatuation with my tantrummy side or that he finds it cute and amusing when I am on the verge of causing him bodily harm.

He is so fucking weird.

“You can keep your shitty apartment then. You want it this way. You can have it back this way. Pretty sure I can still get mine back, seeing as Jake rented it out and never sold it. Go home and take it back… bin all my sparkly shit and burn my fucking Unicorns.” I sulk. Tears are hitting now because I’m exhausted, and I’m an emotional nightmare when I’m tired. Even I know I’m being psychotic, but sometimes, Arry brings it out of me. And this shit here, this apartment. It just sucks.

I hate it. Hate what it represents. That my boyfriend thinks my décor tastes are sucky and clearly hates our home that I thought we were happy in for the past twelve months.

Arry stands for a moment, typically cool and visually unaffected, like always. He picks up the cushion, sighs, and stares at me contemplatively. Unsure whether he should say anything or not. He has that look that says, ‘trying to choose between acting scared or being indulgent.’ It’s filtering into that thick head that I’m serious about this, and it’s not just jet lag or Sophie being her grumpy, tired asshole self or ‘hangry,’ even though I am also starving.

Food won’t fix this! I’m genuinely distraught.

“I didn’t think it would upset you this much… I figured you wouldn’t notice and would probably fill it up with stuff you bought here anyway.” The soft voice, the smooth tone of a guy trying to appease me because he knows he fucked up. I know him too well, and I turn my back on him. I hate that since we got together, it’s much easier for him to hurt me in such dumb, stupid, meaningless ways. Being in love with him gives him way too many tools to wound me. Best friend Sophie was way more emotionally stable and immune to the stupid shit he did.

“I’m sorry, baby… I don’t know what else to say. I’m an insensitive jerk, and I never thought about how you would take this.” He moves to me, his body heat seeping through my thin cotton dress as he gets painfully close, his breath on the back of my neck, and I tense. Warning him not to touch me. I will knee him in the balls if he thinks touchy and cuddly will sway me.

“Yeah. Cos telling me that you hate my taste and don’t like what I’ve done to your apartment is not hurtful.” I sniff as tears hit my cheeks, despite my efforts to hold them, shaking my head at all of this. He sighs heavily, and the warmth of his breath flutters down the back of my dress, telling me he is right behind me, and I shiver with the sensation. My skin goosebumps involuntarily and makes my stomach flip with little butterflies. Even when I am mad at him, he still makes every part of my body react to him so effortlessly.

“I love you, and I’m an asshole.” His fingers gently trace the back neckline of my dress, moving my hair and making my skin erupt in tingles. I know what he’s doing. What he always does when he upsets me and is trying to make amends. He wins me around with soft touches, sweet words, and gentle Arry that I normally have no resistance to. I’m stronger than that, and this is one step too far. It’s not just a stupid thing. It’s a huge thing that I can’t just let him brush away.

“Sometimes I hate you.” I sulk back. Refusing to let him weaken me, retorting in good old-fashioned childishness.

“Ouch, that stings. You know how to make me bleed, baby… Hate me even if I let you fill every room with sparkly, pink, fluffy, unicorn themed and a million candles you forbid me from lighting?” the lighter tone in his voice, the “I’m sorry” huskiness, gets me. I lift my chin a little higher in stubbornness, stiffening my spine. Refusing to sway so easily over something this big. He won’t win me around with sweet boy antics this time.

“Why? So that you can hate this place too?” I mumble drily as I move forward to get his fingers off my skin, his breath off my neck. I’m stronger when he’s not making me react to his proximity and more able to withstand his power over me.

“I don’t hate what you did to our apartment, and it is ours, not mine… Like this place is. I was wrong, baby. I just okayed the first ones she showed me for a quick move. Without all the little Sophie touches, I wouldn’t be happy in our New York pad. I missed them when they were gone. You do make it feel like home. I love coming home to it, feeling you in every detail, and you’ll do the same here.”

“Hmmm.” I huff loudly. Softening despite myself.

“Pretty sure you will also punish me by maxing my credit cards in the next week to make up for it. Drag me to every boutique in Paris and carry a shit load of bags and boxes for you.” He moves to me again, running his fingers down my arms, making me tremble, soothing me a little with fast words, and offering to let me spend all his money. Arry always knows how to play me and brush away my tantrums and moods, even when I think he has no chance. My tears have stopped, and I wipe them away moodily, still trying to make a show of being unimpressed. He isn’t getting off that lightly.

“Better up your limit… or add a couple more cards.” That heavy ache in my stomach lifts a little as I let go of some of the churning hurt and regain control now the shock of arrival is wearing off. Looking around defeatedly and still sighing at how disappointing it is.

It’s not my home.