"Some wanna act rough like John Cena
Some wanna get buff like John Cena
We used to be cool, when I used to come through
Now you wanna act tough like John Cena"
That was what was playing in my head. Sho Madjozi really did a number on me. The song's vibrant energy and pointed lyrics about sudden emotional change—about a smooth connection turning rough—felt like the perfect soundtrack to my post-intimacy panic.
I mean, it's not her exactly, but my subconscious mind didn't allow me a wink of sleep. I kept waking up after every three minutes, my body snapping into a cold sweat, hoping to find Julian tiptoeing out of my apartment, trying to sneak away before the awkwardness of the morning set in.
But he didn't. He slept peacefully, still cradled with me until the morning light started to diffuse through my thin curtains. His arm was a warm, heavy weight draped possessively across my chest, and his rhythmic breathing was the only sound besides the frantic, silent clicking of my internal clock.
I guess when you want things to go downhill, you don't miss the chance to find a reason, or even a most probable way of how that's going to happen. My mind, the former headquarters of Brian the Hunter, was already constructing the narrative for disaster: He's a nice guy, he's probably only comfortable with the idea of a safe, uncomplicated person. Last night was too much. It breached the archival standards. Now he's realizing I'm messy, and he's going to categorize me as 'Return to Sender.'
This was the core anxiety I was terrified Julian would trigger: the John Cena moment, the sudden shift from "cool" and "come through" to "tough" and unattainable. I was waiting for the tenderness to be weaponized, for the beautiful intimacy to become a reason for him to bolt.
The Great Morning Silence
Around 7:30 a.m., the panic finally subsided, replaced by the profound, terrifying stillness of reality. Julian stretched, his muscles pulling taut beneath my arm, and he let out a low, content sigh. He opened his eyes, blinked a few times, and then looked at me.
His gaze wasn't apologetic, awkward, or frantic. It was just soft.
"Morning," he murmured, his voice husky with sleep, his hand reaching up to gently brush the hair from my forehead. "You look like you wrestled a particularly aggressive ghost last night."
I managed a tight, self-conscious smile. "Maybe just the ghost of my past relationship anxieties."
Julian chuckled, a low rumble in his chest that settled some of the turbulence in mine. He didn't try to minimize my feeling, which was a vast improvement over my past partners who would have just replied, "Stop thinking so much."
He stayed lying there for another five minutes, simply enjoying the warmth and proximity, a gesture that spoke volumes about his comfort. When he finally moved to get up, he didn't spring to his feet in a flurry of clothes-gathering. He moved like he was on a slow, deliberate timer.
"I'm going to make the espresso," he announced, pulling on his boxers and walking out to my tiny kitchen. "I figure I owe you one for teaching me the exact boundaries of your emotional real estate."
That word—real estate—it resonated perfectly with the Ted Park lyric and the vulnerability of the night before. I was the property, and he wasn't treating it like a short-term rental.
I followed him to the kitchen, wrapping myself in a borrowed, overly large t-shirt. Watching Julian navigate my kitchen—a foreign, chaotic land compared to his meticulously organized apartment—was an unexpected masterclass in comfort. He didn't complain about the dull knives or the mismatched mugs; he simply adapted. He found the cinnamon he'd left in his jacket pocket, and sprinkled it into his tea.
The Audit of the Heart
We sat opposite each other at my small kitchen table. The morning light was surprisingly bright, illuminating the coffee steam and the undeniable fact that we had just had profoundly intimate sex. My anxiety, however, clung to me like a thin, cold film.
"So," I started, trying to sound casual, but failing spectacularly, "The night was... incredible. But I need to ask you something before my brain starts building a conspiracy board."
Julian stopped stirring his tea and looked up, giving me the same level of calm, unwavering attention he gave to a fragile historical document. "Ask."
"Are you going to act tough now?" I blurted out, referencing the song without naming it. "Are you going to put up the defenses? Because, Julian, I'm used to the morning after being the part where the guy realizes he's terrified of commitment, and he uses distance to reset the power dynamic. I'm waiting for the pivot."
Julian didn't laugh, didn't roll his eyes, and didn't offer a flippant reassurance. He took a sip of his tea, giving the question the respect it deserved.
"Brian, last night was the culmination of weeks of building trust," he stated, his voice calm and firm. "It was the opposite of easy, messy physical intimacy. It was the moment we committed to the vulnerability that all the quiet dates had led up to. Why would I devalue that by turning cold?"
He leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table. "You look at me and see a potential John Cena, right? You see someone capable of turning rough. But I deal in preservation, Brian. I don't destroy things I value. I cherish the small, fragile details. Last night was a huge, beautiful detail. Why would I file it under 'Expired'?"
His words weren't a deflection; they were an audit of the heart, and they were meticulous. He was using the language of his passion—preservation, value, detail—to articulate his commitment to me. He was showing me that he didn't separate his professional ethic from his personal one.
"I just... I'm used to the fight," I confessed, looking down at my untouched espresso. "I'm used to having to earn the next conversation."
"You don't earn the next conversation, Brian. You live it," Julian responded. "We are two people who fit. We fit in my archive, we fit on your sofa, and we fit in your bed. That is not an accident or a coincidence. That is a fact that I respect. There is no 'game' to play here because there is nothing I want to win from you other than your consistent presence."
The Stillness of Commitment
Julian stood up then, walked over to me, and gently pulled me out of my chair. He wrapped his arms around me, holding me tightly against his soft sweater. He didn't kiss me or say anything dramatic. He just held me until I felt my rigid posture finally melt against him.
"Let's clean up your kitchen," he murmured into my hair. "And then let's go on a walk. And then we can come back and do absolutely nothing. We'll start writing the first page of the new chapter, and it's going to be boringly, beautifully stable."
That's exactly what we did. We worked side-by-side, Julian washing, me drying, the routine feeling so immediately comfortable it was unsettling. We weren't lovers who had just had their first night; we were partners who had finally dropped the performance.
Later, walking through the neighborhood park, hand in hand, I felt the profound difference. I was holding Julian's hand, not as a desperate plea for connection, but as a simple statement of fact. This hand belonged here. This person belonged here.
I looked at Julian, walking beside me, talking about the various kinds of leaves falling from the trees, and I realized the terrible irony of my long search. I had wanted the love that hits you in the face, the love that feels like pain, the love that demands you fight and conquer. But that love had only ever made me feel small and temporary.
Julian had offered me the quiet love—the love that makes you feel immensely, permanently valuable. He didn't need to be rough or tough; he needed to be precise.
That morning, as the sun warmed my face and the anxiety finally retreated, I understood that the thrive wasn't found in the conquest; it was found in the still, safe space created by two people committed to gentleness. The chaos was gone, replaced by a deep, resonant harmony. I had finally stopped listening to the frantic pop anthems and started listening to the subtle, beautiful hum of real life.