“I was angry.”
“At me.”
“At everything.”
That I believe. I tilt my head back just enough to glance at him from the corner of my eye. Wet hair slicked back. Mouth hard. Blue eyes on the washcloth like cleaning my arm is a job that requires full concentration or someone dies.
Maybe it does.
“You were going to let someone else decide whether I lived.”
His jaw ticks.
“I was going to let someone else decide whether I could.”
There it is.
The thing under all of this. Not mercy. Not trust. Not even punishment.
Fear.
Hisfear.
That realization slips under my ribs quiet and deep. I look away too quickly, unsettled by the shape of it.
He rinses the cloth again, then slides it up over my neck. Along my jaw. Avoiding the worst swelling on my cheek with maddening precision.
I close my eyes because having them open feels too intimate now.
“I meant it,” I say.
He doesn’t ask what. Maybe he knows. Maybe he’s been waiting.
“Idolove you.”
The washcloth stills against my throat. Every muscle in his arm locks around me.
I hate how hard my heart is pounding. Hate that I said it again when the first time already ruined everything. Hate that even now, bruised and exhausted and scraped raw, it’s still true.
His mouth is close to my ear when he finally speaks.
“You choose terrible moments.”
A wet, broken laugh slips out before I can stop it.
“Yeah.”
“Worst possible.”
“Probably.”
He says nothing after that.
Just lowers the cloth. Keeps washing me.
But the whole room feels different now. Heavier.
***
