Letting the bar rise a fraction, it's just enough to let him drag in air.
Then I press it down again.
Slowly.
Harder.
The steel bites deeper into his sternum as the bench squeals against the floor. Sweat breaks fully across his face now, running into his hairline. His forearms quiver from the effort of not losing control completely. I can feel every tiny desperate adjustment through the bar.
“St. Augustine didn’t put me away for no reason,” I mutter quietly.
That sentence goes through him like a wildfire.
He does not know the details. He doesn’t need to. The not-knowing does more work than any explanation ever could.
“You don’t get to use her name to make yourself feel important,” I warn. “You don’t get to hover around her because you think broken things need a witness. You don’t get to decide that her hurt means there’s room for you.”
He is breathing through his teeth now, fast and shallow. Survival has reached his eyes properly. He still tries for a sneer, but pain keeps interrupting it.
“Get off,” he hisses again, weaker now.
I look down at the plates.
Then at his throat.
Then back at his eyes.
“Say her name again,” I whisper softly. “Go on. Use that tone one more time.”
He does not.
Of course he doesn’t.
Feeling the corners of my mouth rise, I smile, because silence is the right answer and now, he knows it.
The weight stays on him. Not crushing. Not yet. Just there, heavy enough that every breath has to be negotiated around it. The bar trembles in his hands. The muscles in his arms stand out like cables, already starting to shake from the strain of holding against me and losing.
“Smart,” I hiss. “You’re not as stupid as you look.”
His face flushes hotter. He hates the position. Hates that he’s flat on his back with me above him. Hates that his body is answering honestly while his mouth still wants to lie. I can see the moment he thinks about yelling. The moment he realizes no one would get here fast enough. The moment after he understands yelling would only make him sound afraid.
That almost makes me laugh.
Bending down, I move close enough that he can smell the mint on my breath, close enough that he has to keep looking at me if he wants to keep track of where the pressure is coming from.
“You know what I think your problem is?” I ask.
He says nothing. His jaw is too tight for speech anyway.
“I think you mistake gentleness for access.” I let a beat pass. “I think you see a girl with scars and tell yourself a story where being curious counts as being kind.” Another fraction of pressure. Another hitch in his breath. “I think you believe if you hang around the edges long enough, eventually somebody damaged enough will confuse your persistence for tenderness.”
His elbows dip.
The bar settles harder into his chest. Not enough to collapse him. Enough to make his face twist. A sharp grunt breaks out of him before he can bite it off.
There it is.
“Don’t,” he gasps.
