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I LIKE brEWING COFFEE, NOT STORMS

T he next morning, Timmy is eerily calm. Too calm. The type of calm that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. His words are measured, his tone soft—almost soothing—but the tension beneath his quiet demeanor hums like a live wire.

I’ve seen this kind of stillness before, and it’s never just stillness. It’s the deceptive quiet, the invisibly brewing agitation that occurs right before a storm. He may seem peaceful on the surface, but underneath, I can sense something volatile waiting to break through, like a pot about to boil over.

He’s outwardly doing and saying all the right things, but I can tell that something’s up. He moves around the apartment with a strange kind of precision, almost like he’s on autopilot, his pace a touch too fast, his gestures just a hair too sharp. I notice little things—a foot tapping a bit too eagerly against the tile, the gleam in his eye catching the light wrong, making his gaze feel both manic and cold. His smiles are fleeting, mechanical, as if he’s trying to convince us both that everything’s okay.

But it’s not okay. Not even close.

I feel it in my gut, the way animals sense a predator lurking nearby. I don’t know what’s coming, but I know it’s not good. And that makes me hyper-aware of everything I do, as if I’m walking barefoot across shards of glass.

I tiptoe around him, desperate not to set him off. I’ve seen the places his mind can go—what he can say when he feels cornered or wronged. I can’t afford to step wrong again. Not after yesterday.

The memories play on a loop, haunting me. His accusations, each one more unhinged than the last, echoing in my mind. The way his voice twisted with venom as he said I couldn’t be trusted. And then, the moment his anger boiled over—the threats, wild and surreal, like they came from a stranger’s mouth.

He threatened to hurt Sabre.

He threatened to hurt me .

He was out of control, his rage escalating to a place so dark that I barely recognized him. But now, standing here in the deceptive calm of a new day, he’s told me it wasn’t really him. That he was overwhelmed, that his mood disorder was flaring up. That he didn’t mean it.

I want to believe him— need to believe him. Because, if I don’t, what does that say about me?

What does it say about the fact that I’m still here, in this apartment, breathing the same air, sharing the same bed?

I need to believe that it’s a one-off. A mistake. That it will never happen again.

It can’t happen again.

But the fear lingers, coiled tight in the pit of my stomach. I don’t hang out with people who behave like this. I’ve drawn boundaries in my life, especially in my career—held people accountable when they crossed the line. But now? Here I am, in the thick of it, pretending everything is fine. Tiptoeing. Apologizing with smiles and kind gestures, as if I’m smoothing over cracks in a fragile vase, hoping it doesn’t shatter in my hands.

I play the part of the perfect fiancée as best as I can. I laugh at his jokes, offer him snacks when I grab something from the fridge, compliment him on things I know he likes to hear. I mirror his mood, carefully watching him for any signs that he might be slipping. I want to keep him happy— calm —just long enough to survive the day.

I let him pick what we watch on TV for the entire day, even though the thought of sitting through more mind-numbing action flicks and slasher movies makes my skin crawl. But, if it keeps him stable, it’s worth it. Anything is worth it.

Every now and then, his eyes flash with irritation—over a misplaced tone in my voice, or when I hesitate too long before answering a question. It’s subtle, but it’s there. I have a feeling he’s observing me as closely as I’m watching him. Little pinpricks of agitation, bubbling just beneath the surface, waiting for an excuse to erupt.

I glance over at him, out of the corner of my eye, trying to gauge where he’s at. He’s still too quiet, too still. It’s like he’s recharging, saving up his energy for something.

The memory of yesterday twists in my gut again. It could have gone so badly. If I hadn’t managed to defuse things, if I hadn’t said the right things to calm him down… I shudder to think of how it might have ended.

He has to stop, or he has to be out of my life.

It’s that simple.

Because, while I care about him, I know I’d survive without him. I know it would hurt—God, it would hurt so badly—but I’d be okay, eventually. And, most importantly, I’d be alive.

He shifts on the bed beside me, pulling me closer like nothing happened. His arm around my shoulders feels both protective and possessive, and the contrast unsettles me. There’s a part of him that loves me, I know that much. But there’s another part—dark, angry, and unpredictable—that terrifies me.

“I’m glad we’re good now,” he murmurs into my hair. His voice is soft, almost too soft, the kind that makes you aware of just how easily things could tip the other way. I attempt to relax. He’s so attuned to my emotions that I don’t want an argument to start because my shoulders are too stiff, or that I’m not reciprocating his affection in my normal way .

“Me too,” I whisper, forcing a smile. My heart is hammering against my ribcage, but I keep my voice steady. “Everything’s going to be okay.”

He tilts my chin up with one finger and kisses me gently, like he’s sealing a promise between us. But it doesn’t feel like a promise I can trust. It feels more like a warning, wrapped up in affection—a silent reminder that I’m his. That everything is fine, as long as I stay in line.

The air between us hums with tension, and I feel like I’m holding my breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Because it will. I know it will. It always does with Timmy.

But for now, I tell myself to hold on.

To ride this wave of calm for as long as it lasts.

Because the storm is always waiting, right around the corner, ready to strike the moment I let my guard down.