He doesn’t deny it.
Instead, he steps down one bleacher.
Not touching.
But the air shifts.
“I’m not here to mess with you,” he says.
I laugh lightly. “That’s funny.”
His expression changes. Playful drains out.
“You still think it was a bet.”
There it is.
I cross my arms. “Leo, said it was.”
“It wasn’t.”
“That’s convenient.”
His jaw tightens.
He reaches past me and grips the railing, leaning in slightly. Not trapping me. Not quite.
But close enough that I feel his breath near my temple.
“It wasn’t a bet,” he says again, quieter now. “I don’t know why Leo said that. I don’t know who started it. But it wasn’t.”
My pulse jumps.
“Then why didn’t you make it right?”
His eyes don’t leave mine.
“Because the lights came on,” he says. “And I was seventeen. And I panicked.”
“That’s your defense?”
“That’s the truth.”
The space between us feels thin. Fragile.
“You still left me standing there,” I say.
His voice drops.
“I know.”
The admission lands harder than any argument would have.
“That was five years ago,” he continues. “Things are different now.”
“Are they?”
“Yes.”
