“That’s your problem,” I say. “Not mine.”
Behind him, Dax looks from Bron to me and back again like he’s watching a sport he didn’t realize was on the card. Sonya folds one arm across her middle and mutters, “Yikes,” under her breath.
Bron hears it. Doesn’t care.
He tries a different tack, because of course he does.
A little more charm. A little less force.
“I know you’re angry,” he says. “You have every right to be.”
“What a relief. I was waiting for your permission.”
“Tilda.”
“No, go on. Tell me how noble you are for acknowledging reality.”
He drags a hand over the back of his neck, and there—there—is the first visible sign that I’m finally getting under his skin. “You always did know exactly where to put the knife.”
“And you always mistook bleeding for intimacy.”
Silence.
That one lands so hard even Dax winces.
Bron’s expression doesn’t collapse. He’s too disciplined for that. But something in it tightens, a private flinch he can’t quite hide. His eyes go darker.
Good, I think.
Good.
And also, traitorously, not good at all.
Because there was a time I knew those eyes in the dark. A time I knew what that look meant when it softened, when it sharpened, when it asked, when it broke. Memory is disgusting like that. It doesn’t care what you’ve earned the right to forget.
He says, very carefully, “I’m trying here.”
“For what?”
The question comes out sharper than I mean it to, but I don’t take it back.
He opens his mouth.
Closes it.
For the first time since he walked over, he actually seems uncertain.
That should satisfy me.
Instead it leaves me feeling scraped hollow.
A production drone glides closer, interested now that the body language has turned dangerous. Sonya notices and steps half a foot sideways, blocking its clean angle with her shoulder like she’s done this kind of thing before. I clock that and store it away for later.
Bron glances at the drone, then back at me. “Not here.”
“No,” I say. “Not anywhere.”
His smile returns, but now it’s thin. Tired at the edges. “You really have decided I’m the devil.”
