Arden's voice gentles. "Too much?"
"He tried," I say, barely audible.
"But he didn't stop it," Arden says softly, finishing the sentence I refuse to.
I hand the shirt back like it burns.
Arden doesn't react. He just notes.
Then he pulls out a fourth sleeve.
"Jasper," he says this time, and my head lifts despite myself.
I open it.
Clean air. Winter. Ink and paper under the edge. Not heavy. Not claiming. Present without pressure.
My shoulders don't lock.
My stomach doesn't drop.
I hold it for a moment longer than the others, then—without meaning to—lift it closer, inhale again.
It doesn't soothe the way marked cloth used to.
But it doesn't hurt.
That feels like a miracle.
Arden's pen scratches quickly. "Okay."
I lower the shirt. "Why? Why is that one okay?"
Arden studies me. "Tell me what Jasper is to you. In your mind. Not on paper. Not hierarchy. In your body."
I stare down at my hands.
"He's new. Not tangled."
Arden nods.
"He wasn't there before Marie. He didn't build routines with me. He didn't promise me anything. He didn't—" My throat tightens. "He didn't have years to prove he'd choose me and then not."
Arden's voice is quiet and steady. "So he feels safer. Because you didn't expect him to protect you the way you expected the others to."
The words land like a stone dropped into still water.
Because they're true.
Arden makes one final note, then sets his clipboard down.
"Now we're going to talk. Not about what they did. Not yet. About what you felt."
My stomach tightens.
"I don't—"
"You do. You just don't want to. There's a difference."
