He leans forward, his hands clasped. "Don't."
"What?"
He shakes his head. "Don't forgive me. Don't let me off the hook. If it helps you to hate me, then hold onto it."
I don't know what to say to that. I don't know how to exist in a world where he's this honest, where he's so willing to let me break him if it means I survive.
He sighs, the fight leaving his body. "I just want you to be okay. That's all I've ever wanted."
I want to scream at him, or throw something, or maybe just collapse onto the floor and never get up. Instead, I just stand there, watching him crumble.
We're both such disasters.
Maybe that's why we fit together so well.
My hands are trembling, but I don't hide them anymore. What's the point? He's seen all of me, the ugly and the broken and the desperate, and he's still here. He still wants me.
I stare at him, really stare, letting myself absorb the hollowed-out version of the man I once thought was invincible. The guilt is written into the set of his shoulders, the tension in his jaw, and the way his eyes flick away from mine whenever he thinks I might actually see him.
I don't want him to suffer. I don't want to exist in a world where he doesn't. Even now, when I should run, when I should end it before it can start again, I can't do it.
He's a disease, and I want every fucking symptom, the same way I always have. Maybe it's destined to end in disaster for us over and over again. But I'd rather have the disaster than to have none of him, than to go through the rest of my life without him in it.
I can survive breaking. I already have. We've torn each other to pieces, broken every part of us that can break, and we're still here. Still breathing. Still fighting. Still wild with hope.
But I don't know how to survive without him. I've never been able to figure that part out, and I don't think he has, either. I don't think we were meant to figure it out. He's a part of me, and I'm a part of him, stamped so deeply into each other's psychesthat nothing—not time, not distance, not a goddamn thing—will ever truly separate us again.
I can survive being broken. But no one can survive without half of their soul, not even me.
"I turned down a job for you," I whisper, my heart thudding like a war drum.
His head snaps up. Hope, real and sharp and beautifully alive, blooms on his face for the first time since I walked in.
"But I have conditions," I add, holding up a finger before he can say anything.
He straightens, hungry for whatever I'm about to offer. "Name them."
"You help me start my own agency," I say, meeting his gaze dead-on. "I want your resources, your contacts, your expertise. But I run it. No agreements. No contracts. I'm nobody's possession, Asher."
He nods, a wild, feral spark in his eyes. "Done."
I hold up another finger. "I never fucking crawl for you again. Not once. Not ever."
"I never deserved to see you crawl, princess," he rasps. "It was always me who was meant to be on my knees for you."
I glower at him, letting him know I'm not finished. "I mean it. Not for any reason. If I get on my knees for you, it's because I choose it. Not because you demand it."
He's dead serious now. "Understood."
I cross my arms, telling him the rest of it. "And I want a safeword."
He cocks an eyebrow, and for a second, the old arrogant Asher is back. "I make you feel unsafe?"
I shake my head, feeling my cheeks go hot. "No, but…I need to know you'll stop if I need you to."
His face softens. "You don't need a word, Brielle. I know you. I know how much you can take. I know what you need. I won't push you beyond it."
"You did once," I remind him, my voice trembling, but I don't back down.
