I pivot, stepping into his space, angling my body so it blocks his line of sight to Talia completely. My forearm goes across his collarbone, backing him up until his shoulders hit the cool brick of the maintenance building. Controlled pressure instead of punishment.
He freezes when the wall touches his back. There’s just enough weight in my arm that he feels how quickly this could go bad.
“What you’re going to do,” I say quietly, “is walk away. Right now.”
He swallows, breath sour-hot against my jaw. “I wasn’t— I was just talking to her—”
“You grabbed her,” I correct. “That means you’re done talking.”
His gaze skitters, looking anywhere but my face. “Jesus. Chill.”
I lean in a fraction, enough that he can see how calm my eyes are. People like him expect yelling. The quiet rattles them more. “You’ve got three seconds,” I say. “One.”
He tries to shrug out from under my arm and doesn’t go anywhere. Panic flashes across his face.
“Two.”
“Okay, okay,” he blurts. “Fuck. I’m going.”
I step back.
He stays plastered against the wall for a beat, like he doesn’t quite trust it. Then he slides out sideways, keeping as much distance between us as he can, and stumbles down the path, half-jog, half-stagger, until the dark swallows him.
My focus shifts immediately.
Talia.
She hasn’t moved much. She’s a few feet back from where he held her, hands fisted in her coat, chest rising and falling too fast. Her eyes are huge, fixed on the darkness where he disappeared, then snapping to me.
The urge to go to her almost knocks me off my feet.
I turn toward her, lifting a hand to check her wrist.
She recoils.
It’s a violent, instinctive step back, her eyes locking on my hand—my taped hand—with raw fear.
It stops me cold.
Tuesday night, in the rink, she had her mouth on this hand. She kissed the tape like it was part of me. She trusted it to hold her.
Tonight, she looks at it like it’s a weapon. Like I’m the same as the drunk, just bigger and more efficient at hurting people.
I drop my hand instantly.
“I’m not going to touch you,” I say. My voice comes out rough. “I’m done. He’s gone.”
Her throat works in a swallow. She blinks, the panic in her eyes clearing just enough to recognize me, but the fear remains, sharp and bright. The violence just rewrote everything we built in the last week.
“You okay?” I ask.
She flinches at the question like it’s the first real hit she’s taken tonight.
“Fine,” she says automatically. The word cracks in the middle. “I’m— It’s fine. You didn’t have to—”
“Yeah,” I cut in, not unkindly. “I did.”
Silence stretches, cold and heavy. The distant hum of the rink presses at my ears. Somewhere far off, a car door slams. Out here, on this strip of path, it’s just us.
