Woke up feeling like a fucking problem today. Not in a bad way—in the way where I’m two steps ahead, already bored, and craving a little chaos. My brain’s been stuck on this fantasy all morning: me, the edge of the kitchen counter, my husband’s hands on my hips hard enough to bruise. Not asking. Taking. That push and pull where I’m bratting just to feel him snap and shut me up. That moment right before he fucks the attitude out of me is better than any apology or gentle touch. It’s the only kind of vulnerability I can stomach—the kind I force him to carve out of me. Anyone else get off on the fight just as much as the finish?