He says it with such certainty, such finality, that I believe him.
We stare at each other. Him in the doorway looking like violence personified. Me on the floor looking like exactly what I am, a scared woman who's in way over her head.
"I told you," he says quietly. "I told you I wasn't safe."
"You didn't hurt me."
"I scared you. That's bad enough."
"You didn't—" I stop. Because he did scare me. Not him specifically, but the situation. The violence. The reality of what he's capable of when he's not holding back. "It wasn't your fault."
"Yes, it was. They came here because of what I did. Because I—" He stops, runs a hand over his head. Winces when he touches something tender. "Because I can't seem to stay away from you even though I know I should."
"You did nothing wrong," I say quickly. The words tumble out before I can think them through. "Danny, you were protecting me. That man came back because he's an entitled asshole who couldn't handle being told no. Not because of you."
"I put you in danger—"
"No." I push myself up from the floor, legs shaky but determined. "He put me in danger. You defended me. Again. That's what a good man does."
His laugh is bitter. Harsh. "A good man? Joanna, are you hearing yourself? I'm not a good man. I don't understand how you can't see that."
"I see you—"
"No, you don't." He takes a step into the storage room. Not threatening. Just... desperate. Like he needs me to understand. "I spent ten years in prison. A decade locked up with the worst humanity has to offer. I fight men for money, beat them unconscious, break their bones, make them bleed. I just sent five guys to the hospital because they pissed me off. That's who I am. That's all I'm worth."
The rawness in his voice cuts through me. This isn't just self-deprecation. He actually believes it. Believes he's worthless. That violence is all he has to offer.
"Stop," I say.
"Stop what?"
"Stop acting like you're some kind of monster." I take a step toward him. My fear is gone, replaced by something else. Something fierce. "You went to prison. Yes, I heard you. Ten years. That's serious. But I'm sure you had a good reason."
He goes very still. "What?"
"You heard me. I think you had a good reason for whatever you did. A good reason to nearly kill someone, because that's what gets you ten years, right? Assault with intent or something close to it." I'm guessing, pulling from crime shows and news stories, but the way his jaw clenches tells me I'm close. "So, tell me I'mwrong. Tell me you did it for no reason. That you just woke up one day and decided to destroy someone's life."
Silence.
He's staring at me like I've just spoken a language he doesn't understand.
"That's what I thought," I continue. "You're not answering because I'm right. Because there was a reason. A good one. And whatever it was, it was worth going to prison for."
More silence. But something changes in his expression. Something vulnerable and raw that he's trying to hide.
"You want to know?" His voice is low. Dangerous. "You really want to know why I went away for ten years?"
"Only if you're okay telling me."
He's quiet for a moment. Just breathing. Thinking. I can see the war happening behind his eyes, whether to tell me or push me away. Whether to let me in or keep the walls up.
Finally, he speaks. "Yeah. I'm okay telling you. But not here. Not after..." He gestures vaguely at the warehouse behind him. "Not after all this. Not with you shaking and blood all over me and—" He stops. "Just not here."
That's fair. More than fair, actually. This storage room has seen enough tonight.
"Okay," I say. "Where?"
"Let me give you a ride. We can talk in the truck. Or I can follow you home if you want. Whatever makes you feel safe."
