He steps closer. This time, I don't stop him. His presence crowds my space, his body a solid wall of calm against my unraveling. "They don't see consent the way you do. They look at who has the power and how they yield it."
I insist, "I wasn't powerless. I chased you and fully knew what I was doing. It was my choice!"
He lowers his voice, enough to make my chest ache. "I know. But knowing that doesn't protect you. Or me."
"So I don't get a choice over who I love?"
"It's not that black and white, Bluebird."
Another round of anger floods me. I jab his chest. "You didn't even talk to me. You didn't ask what I wanted."
He sighs. "I know what you wanted. I still do."
I shriek, "Then why would you do this? Why would you put yourself in a cage for something that wasn't wrong?"
"Because if I didn't, they'd come for you instead."
I shake my head, confused.
He declares, "They would question you, pull apart your history, your records, your scars. They would decide whether you were capable of wanting what you wanted."
My breath stutters. "They don't get to do that."
"That's what would have happened," he maintains.
I shove at his chest, not hard enough to move him, just enough to discharge the surge inside me. "So your solution was to call up the cops and have them throw you in jail?"
He replies in an even tone, "My solution was to remove you from the line of fire."
Tears fall down my cheek. I snap, "You don't get to sacrifice yourself for me. I didn't ask you to."
"I didn't do it because you asked. I did it because it was my choice."
My laugh comes out wild, unhinged. "You chose jail over talking to me?"
"I chose control over chaos," he answers.
I fire back. "That wasn't control! That was panic dressed up as morality."
His eyes flash. "Don't."
"Don't what?" I challenge. "Don't say the quiet part out loud?"
He exhales slowly through his nose. "You don't understand the weight of what this looks like from the outside."
My voice grows louder. "I don't care how it looks. I care that you decided I was something that needed to be protected from myself."
His hands come up, framing my face again, firm but gentle. "I decided you were something worth protecting from them."
The room goes still.
My chest heaves. My thoughts scatter, sharp and erratic. Anger burns hot and fast, tangled up with something dangerously close to relief.
Silence stretches, heavy and charged, with the fire crackling behind us and the lake pounding steadily beyond the windows. My hands fist in his shirt again, anger and want colliding with nowhere to go.
I whisper, "You broke us."
His eyes lose their focus for a beat, lashes lowering as if the weight of the world settles behind them. He replies, "I broke protocol."
