"Why did you leave?"
This is where I should shut down. Refuse to answer. Tell her to drop it.
Instead, I hear myself say: "Something went wrong. People died. My fault."
"I don't believe that," she says softly.
"You weren't there."
"No, but I know you. A little, anyway. And the man who risked his life to save an idiot hiker in a storm isn't the kind of man who gets people killed through carelessness."
"You don't know me," I say roughly. "You don't know what I'm capable of."
"Then tell me."
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because—" I take a breath, forcing the words out. "Because it's too gruesome. Too violent. The kind of thing that gives younightmares worse than whatever your brain can imagine. And I won't do that to you. I won't put those images in your head."
She's quiet for a long moment. I can feel her watching me in the darkness.
"It wasn't your fault," she finally says.
"You don't know that."
"Yes, I do. Because you're clearly punishing yourself for it, have been for years. And people who are actually at fault? They don't punish themselves. They make excuses. They blame others. They move on." She shifts slightly closer. "You're a good man, Rhett. Whatever happened, I'm sure you did everything you could."
My throat is tight. I can't remember the last time someone said something like that to me. Can't remember the last time someone looked at my scars and saw anything except a monster.
"You're wrong about me," I manage.
"I don't think I am."
The mate bond thrums between us, warm and insistent. The bear has gone quiet, content just to be near her.
"You should sleep," I say, but there's no force behind it anymore.
"So should you."
"I told you, I don't sleep well."
"Maybe you would if you talked about it more. Instead of keeping it all locked up inside."
"Talking doesn't help."
"How do you know? Have you tried?"
"No."
"Then how can you be sure?" She reaches out, and I feel her hand land on my arm over the blankets. Just resting there, a point of contact. "I'm a good listener. If you ever want to try."
I should pull away. Should maintain the distance. Should remember that she's leaving in the morning and this, whatever this is, can't continue.
But I don't move. I let her hand stay where it is, let the warmth of it seep through the fabric.
"I'll think about it," I lie.
