I wanted to argue. To rip through his words and find the hidden manipulation, the part where he was still playing some twisted game.
But my mind wouldn't let me.
Because I remembered.
The night behind the library—
the way his hand pressed into my shoulder, keeping me from stepping into view.
The way his hands curled into my sleeve that night like he couldn't bear to let go.
The way he turned the second that man grabbed me, no hesitation, like he didn't even think before throwing himself into the fight.
The way he caught my wrist when I passed out.
All the times I should have died. All the moments where, by all logic, he should have let me go.
And yet, I was still here.
My breath hitched. I couldn't stop the thought—the terrifying, inescapable realization that settled in my chest like something venomous.
He never let me fall.
I clenched the blanket tighter, the fabric bunching under my grip. "Why?"
His brows pulled together slightly, like he didn't understand the question.
"Why?" I repeated, my voice unsteady. "Why am I still here? Why did you—" I swallowed, forcing myself to say it. "Why did you save me? Every time?"
The moment stretched.
He sat there, quiet, unmoving, and I was sure—so sure—that he wouldn't answer.
That he'd deflect. That he'd smirk, throw something cold and cruel at me just to push me back into the safety of anger.
But then—
His gaze dropped. His hands, still pressed together, twitched slightly.
And softly—sosoftly I almost thought I imagined it—he said,
"I don't know."
The breath left my lungs.
I stared at him, my heart pounding so hard it ached. Because that wasn't the answer I expected. That wasn't the answer I knew how to fight.
That was the answer of someone who wasn't lying.
I shook my head, something bitter rising in my throat. "You always know," I whispered. "You always have an answer. A plan. A reason."
His eyes lifted back to mine. Dark. Steady. Frustratingly calm.
"Not this time."
I wanted to hate him for that.
For saying it like it was that simple.
Like it wasn't making my stomach twist, my pulse pound, my entire reality start to shift in ways I wasn't ready for.
I sucked in a sharp breath, pushing down the feeling clawing up my throat. I didn't want this.
I didn't want to see him differently.
Because if I did—if I let even one thought slip—then I didn't know where that left me.
My chest was too tight. My pulse too fast. I needed to breathe.
I forced in a shaky inhale, but it didn't help—not when he was still looking at me like that. Like he had no regrets. Like everything was exactly as it was supposed to be.
Like none of it—none of it—had ever been personal.
Something snapped.
"God, I hate you."
The words tore out of me before I could stop them, sharp and raw and too real.
His expression didn't change. Not at first.
But then, something in his gaze shifted—something so small, so imperceptible, I almost missed it.
I didn't care. I couldn't care. Because now that I had started, I couldn't stop.
"You ruin everything," I spat. "You destroy people's lives like it's some kind of equation. Like it's just cause and effect. Like it doesn't matter."
He didn't react.
And that just made it worse.
My voice broke. "But it does matter. They mattered."
My hands were shaking. My whole body was shaking. I didn't know if it was the fever still lingering in my blood or if it was something deeper, something that had been buried too long and was finally breaking free.
"You killed them." My voice was barely above a whisper now, but it cut through the air like a blade. "You killed Vee. And I—"
I clenched my fists, pressing them into my lap, pressing down the guilt, the grief, the shame.
"I let you live."
His jaw tightened. Just barely.
I let out a sharp, bitter laugh. "You know what's funny? I keep thinking about that night. About what I should've done differently. About how—" I exhaled, shaking my head. "About how if I had just stayed out of it, if I had just let that man finish what he started—"
My breath caught.
Vee would still be alive.
He should have died that night. That man should have killed him. And maybe then, none of this would have happened.
I swallowed against the lump in my throat. My chest ached. "I should regret saying that."
Silence.
He didn't move. Didn't speak.
And for the first time—I wanted him to.
I wanted him to fight back, to throw something cruel at me, to push me so far back into my own anger that I wouldn't have to feel anything else.
But he didn't.
He just sat there.
Watching.
Waiting.
Like he was letting
mehatehim.
Like he already knew I did.