Both of us on the floor.
Both of us holding something we don’t fully know how to put down.
“You don’t get to decide what’s good for me,” I say finally. “Even if you’re right.”
“I know.”
“And you still haven’t answered the question. About your dad. What does that mean?”
He picks up the pill bottle.
Sets it on the desk.
Out of my reach.
Doesn’t answer.
• • •
“Cassian —”
“What’s with all the questions?”
“How about you answer one. Just one. Pick your favorite.”
He looks at me for a long moment.
Then he lunges.
I squeal — actual, undignified, full squeal — and scramble off the floor, trying to put furniture between us, knocking into my deskchair, absolutely losing the structural integrity of this interaction —
He catches me in about four seconds.
Of course he does.
Those arms.
I stop fighting.
Let myself be caught.
We end up back on the floor.
Of course we do.
The floor and I have an established relationship at this point.
I look at him.
He looks back.
“Are you still sleeping with Abby?”
He closes his eyes.
“Oh my god.”
“I’m serious. I will fight her. Tell me right now. Does she know about last night? Because I have nothing to lose today, Cassian, I genuinely —”
