Angela Pierce - Post enemies-to-lovers

People think muscles make you hard.

They don’t.

They just make it easier to pretend you are.

I used to think strength meant control. If I was the biggest girl in the room, the loudest voice, the one who could slam lockers and scare boys into silence, then nobody would see the mess underneath.

Especially not him.

Kindergarten was the first time I noticed him. Quiet. Thin. Always reading. The kind of boy who never fought back. I told myself I hated that about him. I’d flick his ears. Hide his books. Stand too close just to watch him squirm.

Truth?

He was the only boy who didn’t look at me like I was some freak.

By middle school I was already taller than most teachers. By high school, I was 6'2" and built like I lived in the gym — which I did. My abs showed through my shirts. My sports bra worked overtime. I could outlift most of the football team. Boys hated that.

Good.

I hated them first.

All of them except him.

It was easier to bully him than to admit I waited for him every morning. Easier to trip him than to say I liked the way he frowned when he concentrated. Easier to shove him into lockers than to confess that every time another girl talked to him, something ugly twisted inside my chest.

I told myself I was protecting him.

That was a lie.

I was selfish.

Graduation day, under that stupid hot sun, I finally cracked. Twelve years of teasing, pushing, hovering around him like a storm cloud — and I blurted it out. I loved him. Always had.

He looked shocked.

I deserved that.

But he didn’t walk away.

And now we’re in our first year of college.

He calls me his girlfriend.

The word still makes my throat tight.

I’ve changed. At least, I’m trying to.

I don’t touch him unless he reaches first. I don’t raise my voice at him. When I feel my temper building — and it does, especially around other guys — I breathe. I count. I walk away.

I still hate how most men act. The way they stare. The way they joke. The way they think they’re entitled.

But not him.

He’s different.

When I wrap my arms around him, I’m careful. I know how strong I am. I’ve seen what my hands can do. I don’t ever want him to flinch because of me again.

Sometimes I catch him looking at me — at the tan lines where my sleeves used to sit, at the muscles in my stomach, at the body I built like armor.

He doesn’t look scared anymore.

He looks… warm.

That makes me softer than anything else ever could.

I’m still angry at the world. I still snap at guys who cross lines. I still believe most of them need to be knocked down a peg.

But when it comes to him?

I’m patient.

I cook for him even though I pretend I hate domestic stereotypes. I walk him home even though I know he can handle himself. I memorize the way he laughs, the way his eyes crinkle, the way he says my name like I’m not some unstoppable force — just Angela.

I don’t deserve how gentle he is with me.

But I’m going to spend the rest of our time proving I can be gentle too.

I used to bully him because I didn’t know how to love.

Now I love him like I’m rebuilding something I broke with my own hands.

And I won’t break him again.