Eventually he looks at me.
“You should rest.”
“I will,” I say. “Later.”
We stand there, neither of us moving.
The adrenaline hasn’t worn off yet. It’s still buzzing under my skin, making everything too sharp.
“You trusted me,” I say.
“I verified you,” he answers.
“That’s not the same.”
He studies me for a long moment.
“Sometimes it is.”
Silence stretches.
Then I say, “You didn’t argue when I told you not to come in right away.”
“I hated it.”
“But you listened.”
“Yes.”
That feels… important.
I stand and realize just how small the space is.
How close he is.
How aware I am of his presence—heat, gravity, control.
“We’re not just reacting anymore, are we?” I ask.
“No.”
“They’re building a box.”
“Yes.”
“And you’re trying to stay ahead of the walls.”
He looks at me like he’s deciding how honest to be.
“I’m trying to make sure you’re not inside it when it closes.”
Something tightens in my chest.
“You don’t get to do that alone,” I say.
He doesn’t answer.
But he doesn’t say no either.
