“You asked me what I want,” I say, dragging my gaze back to his. “You asked me that earlier.”
“I remember.”
“I told you. I want him dead. I gave you the answer.”
There it is. No hesitation. No softening. No pretending. Just the truth. It sits between us, sharp and unyielding.
Nash doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look away. Doesn’t try to correct me or soften the edges. He just studies me. Long enough that I start to feel it under my skin.
“That’s not all you want,” he says finally. “I told you that you needed time to process, but if you’re not willing to drop it…if you’re determined to have this conversation now, we can.”
My jaw tightens. “You don’t get to tell me what I want.”
“I get to tell you when you’re lying to yourself. Call you out on the hypocrisy that you’re using to keep everyone else out.”
God, I want to hit him.
“You think this is a game?” I snap. “You think this is me being dramatic or impulsive or—what? Acting out?”
“I think,” he says, voice low, “that you’ve built your entire life around one outcome, and you haven’t thought about what happens after. Or if that outcome isn’t what you truly need or want.”
“There is no after.”
“There is,” he says, stepping closer now, forcing me to tilt my chin up to keep eye contact. “You just don’t want to see it yet.”
“I don’t need to.”
“You will.”
The certainty in his tone makes something in my chest twist, because part of me believes him. And I hate that.
“You don’t understand,” I say, quieter now, the fight bleeding out just enough to leave something raw underneath. “You didn’t see it. You weren’t there.”
“No,” he agrees.
The acknowledgement throws me. There’s no argument, no deflection. Just—truth.
“I wasn’t,” he says. “But I’ve seen enough like it to know what it leaves behind. The chaos and the damage. But you can’t live there. In the worst moments of your life. Itwilldestroy you.”
His hand lifts, slower this time, more deliberate, brushing a strand of hair back from my face. His knuckles graze my cheek, and the touch is lighter than anything he’s given me so far.
Careful. Like he knows exactly where the cracks are and doesn’t want to press too hard.
“You’re not wrong for wanting him dead,” he says quietly.
Something low in my chest turns over. No one has ever said that to me. They’ve told me to move on. To let it go. To live my life. To forget.
“You don’t get to decide that,” I whisper.
“I’m not deciding anything,” he says. “I’m acknowledging the truth.”
My throat tightens.Don’t let this matter.
“You’re also not ready for what it takes,” he adds. “What it is going to cost you. What it will steal from you. The pieces of your soul that you can’t get back.”
There it is. The shift—back to control. Back to distance.
“I don’t need to be ready,” I say, even though my voice isn’t as steady as it was a minute ago. “I just need the opportunity.”
