Letting him sit in that for a second, and then another, the clock on the wall ticks.
When I speak, my voice is almost kind.
“Now you sound teachable.”
Taking my hand away from the clip, I return it to the center of the bar, not lifting yet.
“Here’s what’s going to happen,” I start. “You are going to get out from under this bar and walk out of this room. You are going to scrub Octavia’s name out of your mouth. You are going to stop looking for her, speaking to her, speaking about her, hovering around people she knows, dragging her history into conversations where it does not belong.” My gaze locks on his. “And you’re going to do all of that because next time I won’t stop at frightening you.”
His chest heaves under the steel. He nods once. Fast. Too fast.
I slap him lightly, not even really a hit, just enough to sting and make him flinch.
“Use your words.”
"Yes,” he spits, humiliated by how quickly it comes out.
“Yes, what?”
His nostrils flare. For a moment I think he might choose pride and make me hurt him worse.
Then survival wins.
“Yes,” he says again, lower. “I understand.”
No, you don’t...I guess you need more motivation.
Lifting the bar just enough for him to believe relief is coming, his elbows strain upward as he tries to take some of the weight back.
Reacting, I suddenly shove it sideways, just enough to tilt one loaded end lower than the other, the plates on the dipped side lurching with a savage metallic crash.
He yelps, eyes flying wide as the whole bar jerks crooked in his grip, balance threatening to spill. He is instantly fighting not just weight now, but chaos, trying to keep the loaded side from tipping, muscles convulsing in panic. The sound of metal grinding over metal shrieks through the empty room.
“That,” I say over the noise, calm as can be, “is how fast control disappears.”
Adjusting the bar before the plates can slide off, his arms shake so violently, he almost drops everything. He is breathing like he sprinted here. Face white. Mouth open. The smell of fear is almost clean.
Then, finally, I re-rack the bar, the metal slamming into the hooks, the sound ringing through the gym, my feet dragging as I take a step back.
He doesn’t move at first. He just lies there staring up at the ceiling, dragging air into his lungs like he isn’t sure it still belongs to him. His chest rises hard and fast under the sweat-soaked shirt. One hand twitches against the bar, still trapped in the memory of holding it.
I only let him have a second before I am grabbing the front of his shirt, hauling him halfway upright.
His face comes close to mine. He smells like salt and terror.
“If I hear your name near hers again,” I warn, each word clear, “I will make this room the last place you ever feel safe.”
Shoving him back down, his shoulder blades hit the bench, his body flinching like he expects more.
He should.
Straightening my back, I smooth the front of my shirt, glancing once at the fading bruise along his jaw where Octavia hit him. My thumb twitches with the urge to reopen it.
Instead I lean down, close enough that only he can hear the last part.
“She defended me without me asking,” I murmur. “Do you understand what kind of devotion that earns from a man like me?”
His throat works. He doesn’t answer.
