“They won’t like that.”
“I don’t care.”
She studies me, her face falling open, almost gentle, her eyes soft at the edges. “You’re burning bridges,” she says.
“I know.”
I move deeper into the apartment, checking rooms, windows, exits. It’s a habit, and it lets me avoid her observations. When I come back, she’s poured two drinks from a bottle she says she keeps tucked behind the sink. She hands one to me without asking. I take it. We stand there for a moment, the silence thick and strange.
“They’re going to force it,” she says, the words barely clearing her throat. “The marriage.”
“I won’t let them.”
Her mouth tightens. “You don’t get a vote.”
“I’ve got a gun,” I reply.
She almost smiles, and then her face squeezes shut.
“This is worse than before,” she says. “You know that.”
“I do.”
She takes a breath. “You’re still here.”
“Yes.”
She looks at me then—really looks, like she’s stripping away the years and the rules and the fear, and what’s left is something we both recognize.
“You were my friend,” she says, and it hangs between us.
I don’t answer right away because if I do, I’ll admit we were more than friends at fifteen.
“I didn’t choose that,” I finally reply.
She nods. “I know.”
The space between us feels charged, tight, and familiar in a way that makes my hands itch.
“I hated you for working for him,” she admits.
“I hated myself for it,” I say, breathing evenly. “That was the only way I could be near you. It wasn’t pretty watching you.”
Her breath catches. “You never touched me.”
“I wanted to,” I say.
She swallows. “It wasn’t safe.”
“No.”
The word hangs there. She steps closer like she’s testing whether the ground will give. I let her decide.
“You’re the only thing that feels steady right now,” she says.
“That’s dangerous.”
“So is everything else.”
