“And then today you couldn’t even look at me.”
His gaze drops briefly to the floor, which is almost worse, because apparently now we are doing shame and martyrdom and all the things I have neither the patience nor the emotional energy for.
“It was a mistake.”
Something hot and sharp flares in my chest. “A mistake?”
“Yes.”
The anger arrives suddenly, clean and bright and oddly clarifying. “You don’t get to decide that for me.”
He exhales slowly. “Freya…”
“No.” I stand. The space between us shrinks by half. My heart is hammering now, and I am aware, distantly, that I probably look slightly unhinged in a borrowed hoodie and thermal socks, but frankly he has driven me to it. “Stop telling me what I deserve.”
His head lifts sharply. “I’m not I…”
“You are.” My voice is quieter now, which somehow makes it more dangerous. “You kissed me like you meant it.” The firecrackles behind us. The whole room feels like it’s gone still. “And now suddenly you’ve decided it was a mistake because that’s easier than admitting you wanted it.”
Rory’s jaw tightens. “I’m trying to do the right thing.”
“For who Rory?”
“For you.”
I let out a short laugh. “Stop.”
He frowns. “What?”
“Stop telling me what’s right for me.” The words hang there, heavy and ugly and true. Because that is what this has always been with Rory, hasn’t it. Him deciding things for both of us. Him stepping back before either of us gets a choice. Him acting like self-sacrifice is noble when really it is just fear in a nicer outfit.
“You don’t get to choose that for me, you don’t get to choose what I deserve.” I say.
“Freya, I’m trying not to make this worse.”
“Worse than what?” I snap. “A kiss? One day of you acting like I’m radioactive because apparently you’ve appointed yourself guardian of my best interests?”
“That’s not fair.”
“No, what’s not fair is you kissing me like that and then spending an entire day pretending I’m invisible.”
He looks away for a second and that tiny movement makes me even angrier.
“No,” I say. “Look at me.”
His eyes come back to mine. There it is. The thing he has been trying not to show all day, sitting right there under the careful voice and the distance and the self-righteous bullshit.
“You wanted it,” I say.
His expression shifts. Barely. But enough. “This isn’t about whether I wanted it.”
“Oh, good,” I say. “Excellent. Because for a second I thought we might be discussing the thing that actually happened rather than whatever noble fiction you’ve cooked up to avoid it.”
His jaw sets. “You deserve better than me making a mess of your life because I couldn’t control myself for five minutes.”
I laugh again, incredulous now. “There it is.”
“What?”
