#boulderpunching

It started innocently enough, as most disasters tend to do.

"You ever seen a man punch a boulder?" Chris asked, arms crossed, biceps bulging like he was starring in a late-night fitness infomercial from 1998. His grin was boyish, proud—completely unaware of the domestic doom he was about to unleash.

You blinked at him from across the kitchen island, coffee mug mid-sip. "Chris, no. And I feel like I should keep it that way."

He leaned forward, practically vibrating with excitement. "Wanna see something cool?"

That should have been your first warning. Maybe even your last. In hindsight, inviting Chris over to your apartment after a long mission already teetered on the edge of questionable judgment. But letting him drink three cups of extra-strong espresso? That was a full-speed sprint across the line into absolute chaos.

Caffeinated Chris was a dangerous man. Not in the 'he’ll break your heart' way. More in the 'he’ll accidentally break your walls, ceiling, and possibly the space-time continuum' way.

"Okay, okay, stand back," he said, cracking his knuckles with the kind of intensity most people reserved for defusing bombs or performing emergency surgery.

You didn’t even have time to protest before he dropped into a half-crouch and squared up with your couch. Not a punching bag. Not even a pillow. Your couch. Your not-so-budget-friendly, questionably purchased beige IKEA couch.

"Chris, what are you doing?"

"This thing’s got the structural integrity of a lava rock. Perfect for this," he said, glowing with confidence.

Before your brain could process the absurdity, he punched. The couch exploded. Springs shot into the air like confetti at a doomed celebration. Fabric tore with theatrical flair. One of the legs snapped off and rolled under the coffee table like it was tapping out of the chaos. You stood frozen, coffee cup hovering mid-air, one drop clinging to the rim. Chris looked just as stunned, holding half a seat cushion in one hand and a detached armrest in the other. He stared at the destruction like the couch had somehow betrayed him.

"That... wasn’t supposed to happen."

You set your cup down slowly. "Did you just punch my couch?"

"Technically, yes," he said, rubbing the back of his neck. "But in my defense, it looked very boulder-like from that angle."

"Chris. It’s beige. And tufted. With decorative buttons."

He pointed at the wreckage. "It was beige."

You exhaled through your nose and pinched the bridge of your nose. "That couch cost more than your entire tactical vest setup."

"I’ll fix it!" he offered quickly, eyes wide and hopeful. "I’ve got duct tape."

You blinked.

"A lot of duct tape," he added, pulling out an industrial-sized roll from his tactical backpack like it was sacred equipment.

You didn’t have the strength to ask why he was carrying it. You really didn’t want to know.

Instead, you waved vaguely toward the destruction. "Just... clean this up before Jill gets here. I am not explaining this again."

Chris straightened and gave you a salute, serious and overly formal—like he was reporting for a mission titled: “Fix What You Broke.”

"Yes ma’am! Operation Couch Resurrection is underway."