“There it is,” I fire back. “That line.”
“It’s not a line.”
“It is when you use it instead of actually talking to me,” I say. “You keep saying it like it’s supposed to shut the conversation down.”
“Because it should matter,” he shoots back. “Because youarein danger, whether you admit it or not.”
“I do admit it. I’ve been admitting it since the apartment fire, since you snuck into that fucking warehouse, since every call that’s been getting worse and worse.” I step closer. “But I’m still here,” I add. “I’m still doing my job. I’m still making my own decisions.”
“And that’s exactly what scares me,” he says, regret immediately flashing across his face. The words slipped out before he could stop them.
I go still. “…What? Me making my own decisions scares you?” I ask, my blood running cold.
“No!” he bursts out. “That’s not-”
“Then what did you mean?” I press.
But he goes silent instead. Whatever it is, it’s too messy to let out easily.
My chest shudders with the force it takes to take in a breath.
Finally, he speaks, saying exactly what I thought he would. “It means I can’t control what happens to you.”
The words hang between us: control.
I let out a slow breath. “Yeah,” I say. “You can’t.”
“And that’s a problem,” he insists.
“No,” I counter. “It’s reality.”
We stare at each other, neither of us backing down.
“I’ve seen what happens when things go wrong,” he informs me, his voice lower now and edged with something dark. “I’ve seen how fast it can turn. How quickly people-”
“People like me?” I interrupt.
His jaw locks. “That’s not what I meant.”
“It’s what you said,” I push. “You keep putting me in this category of something fragile. Something that needs to be handled.”
“I don’t think you’re fragile,” he disputes.
“Then stop treating me like I am.”
“I need you to trust me,” he says finally.
I laugh once, soft and disbelieving. “You need me to trust you?” I repeat. “While you’re actively keeping things from me?”
His expression flickers, just for a second. But that hesitation is confirmation to me, causing my chest to tighten.
“Youarehiding something,” I say.
He doesn’t answer, which is answer enough.
“Alex.” My voice drops, sounding quieter but more dangerous. “What aren’t you telling me?”
Finally,finally, he doesn’t deflect right away. Instead, he looks at me, really looks at me, like he’s weighing something. Like he’s deciding whether or not to let me in.
