“Huh?”
“Yesterday morning. With the axe. You were checking the perimeter.”
“Routine.”
“You were angry.”
I stop typing. The cursor blinks on the screen, a steady, mocking pulse.
I look at her.
“I was focused.”
“You were angry.”
She steps closer. She invades my tactical space. She enters the kill zone, and she doesn’t even know it. Or maybe she does. Maybe she knows exactly what she’s doing.
“Why?”
“Because you’re here.”
The truth slips out before I can stop it. Raw. Unfiltered.
“You don’t want me here.”
She’s pushing. Poking the bear.
“I want you anywhere but here.”
I tower over her. I use my size, my darkness, to intimidate her. To make her back down. I need her to back down. I need her to be afraid of me, because if she isn’t afraid, I don’t know if I can hold the line.
“Why?”
“Because as long as you’re here, you’re a target. And as long as you’re a target, I have to be a wall. And I’m tired of being a wall.”
“Then stop.”
“Stop what?”
“Stop being a wall. Be a door, or a window. Be something letting the light in.”
She reaches out and touches the scar on my neck. Feather-light, and it burns like a brand. My pulse jumps against her fingertip. She has to feel it.
“You didn’t save the last one, did you?”
The question slices like a knife between the ribs. Precise. Surgical. She found the old wound and pressed her thumb right into it.
“No.”
I rasp the word out. It tastes like failure.
“I didn’t.”
“Is that why you won’t touch me?”
“You know why I won’t touch you.” I drop my voice, keeping it steady but tight. The air between us hangs thick enough to choke on. “You’ve already figured it out.”
She doesn’t look away. Doesn’t flinch. She tracks this as closely as I do. She diagnosed the fever.
