“You’re going to try to fix this,” he says suddenly, his eyes narrowing as something clicks into place. “Aren’t you?”
I don’t answer.
Which is answer enough.
“Don’t,” he says immediately, stepping forward. “Whatever you’re thinking, don’t.”
“It’s already in motion,” I reply.
“Stacy—”
“I’m not asking for permission,” I say.
His jaw tightens.
“Then what are you asking for?”
“Your help.”
The words settle between us, heavy, unavoidable.
“With what?” he asks, though I can tell he already knows.
I meet his gaze.
“With making this clean.”
Silence stretches between us, filled with everything neither of us is saying.
“You’re talking about leaving,” he says finally, his voice low.
“Yes.”
“You think that fixes it.”
“I know it does.”
His hands flex slightly at his sides.
“You don’t know what happens to you if you do that.”
“I do.”
“And you’re doing it anyway.”
“Yes.”
He looks at me like he wants to argue, like he wants to tear the logic apart, but there’s nothing to grab onto.
Because I’m right.
And he knows it.
“…He’s not going to forgive this,” Vihl says quietly.
I hold his gaze.
“This isn’t about forgiveness.”
