My head turns slowly toward him. He keeps his eyes on the grounds outside when he says the next part, but I know it is meant for me and me alone.
“I didn’t hear you gasping his name last night.”
The cruelty of it shocks me into silence for one beat, maybe two. Then something vicious rises up to meet it.
“So that’s your game?” I ask, my voice quieter now, which makes it far more dangerous. “You lure in women who are already fucked up enough to mistake damage for depth, you flash that Medusa tattoo like it means you understand something about being used? You pretend you know what it is to be somebody’s little object? Somebody’s currency. Somebody’s body before you even know what that means.”
He turns toward me so fast the movement is almost violent.
“You saw it?”
The question cuts straight through my anger, not because of the words themselves, but because of the way he says them. His voice is lower now. Rougher. There is no mocking in it. Just something raw and unexpectedly exposed.
“And you still think you’re the only one who...” He stops himself, jaw tightening so hard I can see the muscle move.
When he speaks again, his tone is sharper, but not emptier. “I don’t paint my body with lies. I paint it with reminders.”
That settles between us with a weight I can’t immediately throw back.
I should leave it there. I know I should.
Instead, I ask the question that has been scraping at me since Lacey held up that folded hundred-dollar bill in the yard.
“Is that why you paid her?”
He doesn’t answer.
“Lacey,” I snap.
Now he does look at me.
The expression on his face changes in a way that makes my chest tighten. Not guilt. Not embarrassment. Something closer to revulsion turned inward.
“I didn’t want to touch her,” he says quietly. “And I didn’t want her touching me.”
There is no performance in it now. No game. The words come out tired, far too immediate to be rehearsed.
That is when it finally lands.
Not all at once. More like a door slowly giving way.
I am not the only one in this car who understands what it means to have your body become the site of somebody else’s hunger, or control, or violence. I am not the only one who learned too early that being wanted and being harmed can get twisted together until you stop knowing which one you are reacting to.
The realization does not soften the anger. It just ruins the simplicity of it.
“Then why let me?” I hear myself say before I can reel the question back. “Why let me touch you?”
His laugh is tired. “Why did you let me? Why did you ignore Kadin and throw yourself into something you knew would hurt you?”
My mouth opens, shuts. Outside the fogged windshield, campus spins like nothing detonated last night: students skirting puddles, backpacks bobbing, everything painfully normal. Inside the car, the silence is a crater.
“I let you touch me,” I whisper, the words falling apart on the way out, “because I needed you in that moment. I needed to know what it felt like to want touch.”
He says nothing. His knuckles rest on the gearshift, tendons taut. I stare at the dashboard. The scent of damp clothes and old coffee saturates the car. Every second drags.
“Letting you touch me was a mistake,” I say, my words flat. “You were there, and I was foolish.” I swallow once, twice. My pulse digs into my throat. “Drunk, your body will feed into anything. Just biology, right?” I snap, tossing his own phrase back at him like it burns my tongue.
Something flickers across his face. He doesn’t flinch this time, but his hand slides off the gearshift and settles on the console between us. His fingers flex, then reach for me across the small gap.
