“Yes, I do.”
“No.”
Her eyes flash. “It’s my life.”
“And it’s my land.”
“That doesn’t mean you own?—”
“I don’t own you,” I cut in, my voice lowering. “But I’m not letting you walk into something like this alone.”
“You don’t get to decide that.”
“I already did.”
The words land hard between us, and she stares at me, her chest rising too fast, her hands clenched like she’s trying to hold onto something that’s slipping.
“You don’t understand,” she says.
“Then explain it to me.”
“He’s obsessed,” she says, the word catching slightly. “And now he’s seen you. If he thinks you’re in the way?—”
“He already does.”
“That’s exactly my point.”
“And you think running fixes that?”
“I think it gives him what he wants,” she snaps. “Me. Not you.”
My jaw tightens. “That’s not happening.”
“You can’t stop him.”
“I can stop you from making it easier.”
Silence drops between us, heavy and tight, and she looks at me like she doesn’t know whether to argue or give in.
“I can’t,” she starts, her voice breaking again. “I can’t be the reason something happens to you.”
That hits deeper than anything else she’s said, because it’s real and because it matters.
I step closer again, slower this time, my voice dropping with it. “You’re not.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.”
“How?”
“Because I’m not letting it happen.”
Her breath catches, her gaze searching mine for doubt, but there isn’t any.
“There’s always a risk,” she says.
“Yeah.”
