“You were almost taken last night,” I say evenly. “I’m adjusting.”
Her face changes. Just a little. “By pretending I don’t exist?”
“By reducing unnecessary contact.”
Her laugh is short and disbelieving. “Unnecessary.”
“Yes.”
“You mean like kissing me in elevators and dragging me to dates and telling me I complicate things?”
Every word lands exactly where it hurts.
I say nothing.
She takes a step closer. “You don’t get to do all of that and then act like I imagined it.”
“I’m not acting.”
“No,” she says quietly. “You’re hiding.”
That snaps something in me.
I stand fast enough that her breath catches. “You think I’m doing this for me?”
She blinks, but doesn’t retreat.
“I’m doing it because men tried to put you in a car last night,” I say, my voice low and controlled and far more dangerous than I intend. “Because my enemies are paying attention. Because the closer you are to me, the worse this gets for you.”
The fight in her expression falters.
I hate the hurt that replaces it.
“I didn’t ask for protection,” she says, but it’s softer now.
“No,” I agree. “You didn’t.”
Silence settles between us.
I can see her turning the words over, trying to decide whether to be angry or understand, and God help me, I want her to do neither. I want her to walk out and let me finish this cleanly.
Instead, she looks at me with those dark, searching eyes and says, “You can’t protect me by making me feel like I did something wrong.”
That lands even harder than the rest, and I don’t have an answer for it.
Because she’s right.
And because staying away from her is supposed to make this easier, but all it’s done is make the whole office feel colder.
I force my jaw to unclench. “Go home, Zatanna.”
Her face closes off at once. A defense. A mask.
Fine. Maybe that’s better.
She nods once. “Right. Of course.”
Then she turns and leaves, quiet and dignified, closing the door behind her without another word.
