He doesn’t argue that.
He stops just behind me, close enough that I can feel the heat of him again, that steady, contained presence that used to feel like pressure and now feels like something else entirely.
“About what?” he asks.
I let out a slow breath, my fingers brushing lightly against the cold surface of the viewport, grounding myself before I answer.
“About what I am now,” I say.
That lands heavier than I expect it to.
He doesn’t respond right away, and I can feel him considering it, not dismissing it, not trying to simplify it.
“That sounds like a complicated answer,” he says finally.
“It is,” I reply, turning now, facing him fully.
His expression is steady, but there’s something behind it, something more attentive than before, like he’s not just hearing me, he’s measuring the weight of what I’m about to say.
“I came onto your ship as leverage,” I continue. “A transaction. Something to be moved, used, resolved.”
He nods slightly.
“Yes,” he says.
“And somewhere along the way,” I add, taking a slow step closer, “that stopped being true.”
“It did,” he agrees.
I study him.
“You didn’t force that change,” I say.
“No,” he replies.
“I did,” I finish.
He holds my gaze.
“Yes,” he says.
That confirmation matters more than I expect it to.
I shift slightly, crossing my arms loosely, not defensive, just… contained.
“So what does that make me now?” I ask.
His brow furrows faintly.
“That’s not a question I get to answer for you,” he says.
“Most people would try,” I reply.
“I’m not most people,” he says.
I almost smile at that.
“Clearly,” I say.
