He shrugs, a gesture so self-aware it's almost funny. "I know."
I pick up the phone again, scrolling through the feeds. There's a video from the night he made his offer. I'm standing in my kitchen in nothing but my underwear, eating yogurt straight from the carton. I look so small. So lost.
He reaches for the phone, but I hold it out of his reach.
"Is this all you have?" I ask, suddenly needing to know how deep the rabbit hole goes.
He shakes his head. "No. I have more."
I think of all the years of surveillance, all the data he must have amassed, all the private moments he watched. All the times I came, moaning his name, thinking my secret was safe in the dark.
"You really are a monster," I say, my voice shaking.
He looks down at the floor, ashamed. "I never wanted to be."
I believe him. God help me, I do.
I stare at the video for a long time, trying to reconcile the person I see with the one standing in front of me. They're bothme, but one is exposed and vulnerable. The other is hard and angry and broken.
Maybe they're both true. Maybe I'm both versions, just as complicated and fucked-up as he is.
I look up to find him watching me with that same intensity, like I'm the only thing that matters in the world.
"Why didn't you stop?" I ask, the words jagged and sharp.
He winces, as if I slapped him. He knows what I'm talking about. "I tried."
"Not soon enough."
He doesn't argue. He just stands there, absorbing the blame, letting it settle on his shoulders like a punishment he's long since accepted.
"I've asked myself the same question a million times," he finally says. "I still don't have an answer, not a good one anyway."
"Try."
"I'd spent two years wanting you, trying to convince myself to kill those feelings, that it could never happen. You were too young for me, and I was a fucking bastard for even thinking it," he rasps. "And then you kissed me, and none of that shit mattered. But I knew it was supposed to matter. I knew as soon as you stopped kissing me, it'd have to matter again. You weren't even eighteen yet." He swallows hard. "So when the light turned red, I just…didn't pull away. I kept kissing you."
"You called me a little girl."
"I never saw you that way," he rasps, staring at me like he's willing me to believe him. "That part of you was ripped away when your parents died, when the whole goddamn world watched you grieve and wanted you to offer them comfort instead. But I didn't want to be the one to take one more thing from you, to make you grow up even more."
"I grew up long before I met you, Asher," I saw wearily. "You don't get to live like we do, with the whole fucking world watching, and still be a kid, not in our world."
This world—fame, notoriety, wealth—beats the innocence out of you long before it should. I don't even remember the last time I felt that way—like any part of me was unstained or childish or naive. I didn't have the luxury of childish things when the adult world was breathing down my neck, begging me to fill shoes never meant for me.
"I know. I wanted it for you anyway." He shrugs. "Even when I followed you everywhere, I wanted it for you."
I nod because I believe him. Until I kissed him, he never made a move, never touched me, never did anything. For a long time, I thought my feelings were just my feelings, that he couldn't possibly see me the same way. I'm not sure when that changed, or when I noticed that the way he looked at me was different. But it was the way he looked at other men who looked at me that made me realize I wasn't in it alone. It was like he hated them for seeing something attainable when they looked at me.
"Do you still watch me?" I ask after a moment.
He shakes his head. "Not since you left. I shut it all down. I haven't followed you. I haven't tried to break into your place. I couldn't—" He stops, swallowing hard. "I didn't want to see you hate me."
The admission is almost more than I can handle. I turn the phone off and set it face down on the desk.
He waits for me to say something, anything.
"You should have told me," I say, my voice soft.
