He stops. Fully. Like my boundary matters enough to register.
I step closer without meaning to. Not enough to touch. Enough to turn the space electric.
“You don’t get to stand here and feed me a line about how I ‘deserved it,’” I say, voice low. Controlled. “This isn’t a pep-talk moment.”
His gaze drops to my mouth for half a second, then returns to my eyes like he caught himself and chose restraint.
“Good,” he says. “Because I’m here for something else.”
“Then why are you here?”
His jaw flexes once. “Because you said it mattered. Because you’re the kind of person who doesn’t ask for space when you need it. And because I knew the results were today and I didn’t like the idea of you walking out of here alone.”
The last part lands like jurisdiction. My skin prickles.
I glance past him—through the glass, to the plaque visible from this angle, catching light like a crown. He follows my look without prompting.
“That,” I say, sharp enough to cut. “That’s what wins here.”
His eyes narrow. “A name.”
“A name,” I confirm. “A wall. A donation. A family that gets thanked in metal while everyone else lines up in booths to be told no.”
His expression hardens, heat sharpening into something violent and focused. “They picked wrong.”
I laugh again, smaller, because if I don’t I’ll do something worse. “Welcome to Earth.”
He steps closer. Close enough that my breath catches. Close enough that my body forgets, for one humiliating second, that I’m furious.
“You’re not done,” he says. A statement. Like weather.
My eyes narrow. “Don’t tell me what I am.”
His mouth tilts. “Fine. Tell me what you are.”
My pulse kicks. I hate him for making this feel like sparring instead of consolation. I hate him for making me stand here with my fists clenched and my chest tight and my mouth too aware of how close his is.
“I’m leaving,” I say.
He doesn’t move. He looks at me like he’s deciding how far he’s willing to push.
“Text your girls,” he says, casual enough to be deniable. “Let them know you’re upright. Then do whatever you’re going to do.”
I blink. “Excuse me?”
His eyes flick to my still-clenched hand, then back up. “Don’t make them spiral.”
I should bite his head off. Instead, my phone is already in my hand, because he’s right and I hate that too.
I type one line.
Me: No. I’m fine. I’m going home.
Three dots appear instantly.
Clara: That’s not “fine.”
Maya: Drop location.
