Six hours of movement—measured, controlled, constant.
And every time I shift—
He shifts.
Every time I breathe—
He notices.
It shouldn’t irritate me.
It does.
“You’re pacing,” I say finally.
“I’m not.”
“You’ve crossed the same three tiles seventeen times.”
He stops.
Slowly turns.
And just like that—the room narrows to him.
“Do you want me to apologize for paying attention?” he asks.
“No,” I say. “I want you to stop treating me like a perimeter breach.”
His jaw tightens.
“I’m treating you like the center of gravity.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“It is when everything collapses if you fall.”
The words land harder than they should.
The room goes quiet around us.
Even Ronan’s voice fades into background noise, like the world knows to step back.
“I’m not glass,” I say.
“I know.”
“Then why are you acting like I am?”
He looks away.
And that—
That’s the answer.
Something in my chest twists.
“Someone is in the hospital because of me,” I say, quieter now. “I get to feel that. I get to respond to that.”
