He doesn’t.
“I’m not letting you do this,” he says. “Not like this.”
I laugh, short and humourless. “You ran and you lied. So you don’t get a vote.”
His hands lift, palms out, placating. “You’re angry. I get that. But you’re not thinking straight.”
That’s the wrong thing to say.
“I am thinking perfectly clearly,” I tell him. “You’re the one panicking.”
His jaw clenches. “You don’t understand what happens if you go back on their terms.”
“It’s not on their terms,” I say. “They’re on mine.”
He steps closer, crowding my space again. I can feel it now, the tension radiating off him, the careful control starting to slip around the edges.
“Just wait,” he says. “A day. An hour. Let me fix this.”
“Fix what?” I demand. “The fact that you kept me in the dark? The fact that you ran? Or the fact that I don’t trust you anymore?”
His hand comes up again, faster this time, fingers catching my forearm.
Not rough.
Not gentle either.
The contact sends a jolt straight up my spine.
I freeze for half a heartbeat, staring down at his hand like it doesn’t belong there. Like if I look long enough, it’ll realise its mistake and let go on its own.
It doesn’t.
“Let go,” I say.
He doesn’t tighten his grip, but he doesn’t release it either. “You’re not leaving,” he says. “Not until you listen to me.”
Something inside me snaps cleanly in two.
I wrench my arm free and shove him hard in the chest.
Snow staggers back a step, surprise flashing across his face before it twists into something rawer. He recovers quickly, feet planting, shoulders squaring like this is instinct now rather than choice.
“Don’t do that,” he warns.
“Don’t touch me,” I fire back.
“You’re making this worse.”
I step forward instead of back. “You don’t get to decide that.”
His hands come up again, catching my shoulders this time, fingers digging in just enough to hurt. Not an attack. A restraint. A decision made for me.
That’s it.
I don’t think. I react.
My knee comes up hard between his legs.
