I knocked. A minute passed before the door swung open.
Tristian stood there, broad shoulders, damp hair, his expression a mask of indifference. He stepped aside wordlessly to let me in, then headed toward the bathroom.
“Meeting’s not until later,” he said, his voice flat.
I cleared my throat, following him into the doorway of the bathroom. I watched him brush his hair, his movements precise and distant. “I-I just wanted to talk. We haven’t spoken in a little while.”
He raked his fingers through his hair, his movements controlled, but angry. “Well... I’m sure you can guess why,” he replied. He didn’t even look at me.
“Tristian... I-I... I’m sorry if I made you upset,” I whispered.
He slammed the brush down.
His jaw clenched hard. “Why do you keep thinking apologizing will fix everything?”
I bit my lip, shrinking back. I’d seen him violent in the ring, but this directed, simmering anger was new, and it was terrifying.
“What will fix everything then?”
“The truth, Ingrid. That’s it. That’s all I want from you.”
My heart began to race at his words. “What d-do you mean?” I stammered. But I already knew.
He exhaled through his nose, shutting his eyes briefly.
My throat tightened. “Tristian, please… I’m—I’m trying.”
“So am I,” he seethed before he scoffed. “I’m tired of seeing you hurt and not being able to do anything about it. I see the bruises. I’m not blind, I’m not stupid, and I’m tired of pretending I am. Every time I try to get close, you shut me out. Every time I want to protect you, you make me feel like I can’t.”
I flinched, instinctively reaching for my sleeve.
He didn’t miss it. “For fuck sake, just a few days ago he interrupted our video call, and when you finally called me back ten minutes later you were crying and covered in blood. You know how hard it was? To not come the same day and put that fucker in the ground?”
“He didn’t—” I started, but the words died on my tongue the second they came.
Tristian didn’t falter.
“Say that again,” he muttered, towering over me. “Go ahead.” His voice dropped, quieter. “Tell me he didn’t do it. Tell me the man who split your eyebrow open and left a bruise on your cheek didn’t do it. You want me to leave it alone again? Is that what you’re asking me?”
I stood frozen. I hadn’t realized how much my silence was poisoning him.
I thought keeping quiet protected him.
I thought if I carried it alone, things wouldn’t explode. I was wrong… so, so wrong.
Tristian strode past me, grabbing his keys, and a sob broke through my throat.
“Tristian... I-I don’t... I-I…”
“You don’t think I would be able to protect you? Is that it? When I was willing to get fucking destroyed every fight to keep you safe from Darragh? Am I not good enough to get close to you?”
He was seething, his voice raw with a betrayal I hadn’t anticipated. Then, he pulled on his jacket, refusing to spare me even a glance.
“Lock the door behind you when you leave. I’ll see you this afternoon,” he growled.
The front door slammed behind him, the sound echoing through the empty apartment and vibrating through the walls.
I kept thinking I should call after him. Kept thinking I should explain, fix it, say something that would make him come back. But my legs wouldn’t work and my voice was gone and all I could think about was the way he’d looked at me.
