“Don’t be ridiculous,” he says. He leans forward to press a chaste kiss to my lips before getting out of the truck, leaving me staring at him with curiosity.

When he opens my door, I simply lift an eyebrow at him, asking for more information.

“It’s a rage room.”

“What the hell is a rage room?” I ask as I climb out of the truck.

“After you told me about your mom the other night, about losing her at such a young age like I did my dad, about how sudden it was, and how you’re not one hundred percent certain you ever really dealt with it, I figured this is exactly where you need to be.”

I stare, blinking at his handsome face and kind eyes as I try to figure out what I did to deserve him. To deserve a man who actually listens to the things I say and tries to make them better.

“Gunner—”

“You mentioned in passing—maybe you didn’t even mean to let it slip—that this week was the anniversary of her death. And while I don’t want to pry, ask how it makes you feel, or any of that other psychobabble shit that would only serve to piss you off or make things awkward, I thought this might be a place where you can let it all out. Even for just a little bit. A place where there will be no judgment for however you choose to express yourself.”

I stare at him—at this man who doesn’t just listen, but really hears me—and am more than touched that he thought to bring me here. That he caught my slip the other night about my mom, didn’t choose to call me on it, but rather opted to give me an avenue to express the mixture of grief, discord, and anger, which has been hitting me haphazardly at random times throughout this week.

Just further proof that he gets me in a way I’m not one hundred percent certain I even get myself some days.

“Look, I’ve been there. I’ve tried to shove death away, reason why it happened, you name it—and all that succeeded in doing was make me angrier. So I understand where you are, I get you, and I hate for your sake that I do.” He takes my hand and points our linked fingers at the entry to Rage. “But today, we’re going to take a small step towards healing the tiny cuts inside of you that break open every now and again.”

“Thank you. I don’t even—” I tug on his hand for him to stop, so I can lean up and press a kiss to his lips.

“You can keep thanking me if you want,” he murmurs against my lips.

“I will once you explain to me what the hell we’re about to do.”

“Let me show you.”