I scroll through them, my entire body numb. Every room, every angle, every moment has been catalogued, archived, and made available at a touch.
He's been watching me.
I want to be furious, but I can't feel anything.
"How long?" I ask, not recognizing my own voice.
He doesn't flinch. "Since the day you were released from the hospital after the accident."
My mouth is dry. "That was five years ago, Asher."
He meets my gaze, unblinking. "Five years, four months, eighteen days."
He says it like he's been counting down the seconds, like he's measured every heartbeat by the distance between us and that awful fucking night.
I set the phone down on the desk, gently. "You're insane."
He nods, just once. "Probably."
"Why?" The question is painful, torn out of me by something I don't even want to examine.
He leans against the desk, his arms crossed over his chest. "Because I needed to know you were okay. Because I couldn'tsleep unless I saw you breathing. Because every time I closed my eyes, I saw you dying in my arms, and the only way I could function was by ensuring I never let it happen again."
His voice breaks on the last word, and for the first time, I realize this is his confession. This is the penance he's been waiting years to offer me. He watched me because the thought of losing me again tormented him.
There aren't enough tears in the world to cry that realization out.
"I've loved you even longer, princess," he says.
I try to process, but my brain is fried. The timeline, the intention, the sheer scale of his obsession—it's too much. I can't even be angry, because it's just another confirmation of what I already knew…he's never been able to let me go. Not for a second.
I think of every time I thought I was alone, every time I cried myself to sleep, every time I screamed at the ceiling, certain that no one in the world cared. I think of all the things I did, thinking no one would ever see.
He saw. He saw all of it.
It should make me sick, but all I feel is…seen.
"You were there when I got hit by the car in LA, weren't you?" I ask, the words leaving my mouth before I can stop them.
"Yes." There's no armor left in his gaze, just ruin. "I was watching you, the same goddamn way I always watch you," he says, his voice a gritty rasp. "I wanted to kill Andrews when I saw him talking to you. I was halfway across the street before you stepped off the curb. And then you walked right into traffic, and I—"
He breaks off, raking a hand through his hair again. "I was too far away to get to you. I was too fucking far away to do anything but watch."
There's so much pain in his voice, it makes my chest ache.
I try to remember being hit, but it's still all jumbled, a mess of pain and sound and then nothing.
"Did you see it happen?" I ask, needing to know.
He nods. "I've replayed it a thousand times. I should have been there." His jaw clenches. "If I'd been closer, you wouldn't have gotten hurt again. You wouldn't hav—" he breaks off, shuddering. "Blaming Andrews was easier than admitting that, even with all my watching, everything I did to try to keep you safe, I still failed you when you needed me."
The silence between us is a living thing. It wraps around my throat, squeezing until I can barely breathe.
For a long time, neither of us says anything. I don't know if I want to scream or cry or reach out and comfort him.
All I know is that he's not lying. Not about any of it.
"You're sick," I say, but there's no heat in it. No anger.
