He blocks another strike. Something inside me flares—anger, yes, but also a sharp, desperate feeling underneath it. I don't want to hurt him; I want him to hit me back. I want him to show me he's still in there.
I throw harder.
A punch to the body drives the air out of him. He exhales, takes it, and resets.
A strike to the jaw snaps his head back.
He resets again.
My hands throb, and sweat slicks my spine under my shirt.
"Fight back," I say through clenched teeth. "That's an order."
For a heartbeat, something shifts in his eyes.
A flash. A spark like a match struck in a dark room, extinguished too quickly to catch.
I step in again, chasing it.
"I said fight back," I snarl. "Stop standing there like a coward in a suit. Do something."
He blocks, shifts, and absorbs.
The spark is gone.
I stop moving. My chest heaves, and my wraps feel damp against my skin.
He stands across from me, barely winded, waiting for the next instruction.
"You read it," I say.
His shoulders tighten, almost imperceptibly. I notice.
"You read what I wrote," I continue, closing the distance slowly. "You read my notes, and you decided the best way to punish me was to become exactly what I described."
His mouth moves, and his voice comes out smooth and empty.
"I am performing my function, sir."
I step closer.
"No." The word comes out rough. "You're hiding."
His jaw tightens.
"You're using what you saw as an excuse to shut down because feeling anything hurts, and shutting down feels like control."
His gaze flickers again—quick and bright—then steadies.
"You are not that label," I say, pushing the words into him like knives. "You are a man. You are the one who kept me alive when the room went dark. You are the one who took a blow that wasn't meant for you. You are the one who stood in that shower and looked at me like you wanted to swallow me whole."
"Sir—"
"Don't." I'm close enough now to see the pulse hammering in his throat. "That man is still in there."
I lift my hand as if I'm going to hit him again.
He moves.
