My silence gave it away, and his jaw constricted. “So you don’t think?—”
My hands fisted. On pure instinct, I spewed, “I hate you.”
He didn’t flinch. Instead, he agreed. “Yeah, I know.”
His acquiescence hurt far more than if he had tried to fight me on it. I went to turn away from him, but he caught my wrist. Not a hard grab, but enough to cause my breath to hitch.
“Let go.”
He didn’t, pressing his thumb against my pulse. “You need to eat something.”
“I’m not one of your problems.”
“I know.”
“Then stop acting like I am.”
“I’m just making sure you don’t make it worse.”
I shook my head. “You don’t get to decide that.”
“Someone has to.”
My body twisted sharply. A wave of nausea hit me with a rush of emotions, and I swayed. His hand caught my elbow. I froze for a second, though I didn’t pull away. Increasing his grip just slightly, he steadied me instead.
He was close.
Too close.
“Don’t,” I whispered, still not moving from his grasp.
His hand slid, slow and deliberate, from my elbow to above my wrist.
“If it’s mine,” he declared, “you don’t get to pretend it’s not.”
“It’s not yours,” I firmly responded.
I was too fast.
Too sharp.
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.”
“You don’t.”
“Stop.”
“Then tell me.”
“I said stop.”
Silence again.
“Six to eight weeks?” he asked, causing my breath to hold. “You think I don’t see it?”
I went stiff.
