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“You don’t get to demand anything from me,” I say, my voice rough but steady, even as I shift slightly, trying to get comfortable without showing how much it still hurts. I exhale slowly, dragging a hand down my face before letting it drop into my lap.

“You stepping in that night didn’t just stop a fight,” I start, my gaze drifting toward the windows for a second before coming back to him. “It screwed up the entire setup.”

His jaw tightens, but he stays quiet.

“Henry had money riding on that fourth fight,” I continue, forcing the words out even though every instinct I have is telling me to shut up, to keep this to myself. I shift again, my ribs protesting, but I push through it.

“He was trying to wear me out,” I add. “He was trying to make sure I lost. When you stepped in,” I go on, “you didn’t just take my place. You cost him whatever he had riding on that outcome.”

I let that sit for a second. Let it sink in.

“So he made an example out of me,” I finish, my voice quieter now, but heavier. “To get his money back. To send a message. To make sure I don’t step out of line again.”

Silence stretches between us again. I meet his eyes, holding his gaze.

“That’s how this is your fault.”

Chapter 19

Conor

Fuck. No. That’s not… this is not how this was supposed to go. The words settle somewhere deep, sharp and heavy, and for a second, everything in me goes completely still. My jaw locks so tight it aches. I keep my posture rigid, shoulders squared, back straight, every muscle pulled tight like a wire stretched too far, because if I let even an inch of that control slip, I already know what’s waiting on the other side of it. Rage, cold and focused. The kind that doesn’t stop once it starts.

My hands are clenched into fists against my thighs, fingers digging into the fabric hard enough that I can feel the pressure through the denim, grounding me just enough to keep me here. I force myself to release them. My fingers spread out against my legs, pressing flat, holding there as I pull in a long breath through my nose, letting it out just as controlled, then doing it again. And again.

Each breath measured. Each one forcing the edge back just a little more. This isn’t about me losing control. Not right now. Not in front of him. But that doesn’t change the fact that something inside me has already shifted.

“I wanted to protect you. I thought—” I don’t get the rest out.

He turns to face me fully, the movement costing him. I can see it in the way his expression tightens, the slight wince he can’t quite hide, but he does it anyway, forcing himself through the pain just to meet me head-on. And then he hits me with it.

“You thought you could control the situation,” he says, his voice rough but cutting, every word deliberate, like he’s making sure I feel it. “Any other outcome other than what you wanted didn’t even cross your mind.” I don’t interrupt because I can already see where this is going.

“You played the hero,” he continues, his eyes locked on mine, unflinching despite everything he’s been through, “and I ended up paying the price for it.”

I feel his words settle in my chest, heavy and unwelcome, pressing against everything I thought I was doing right, everything I justified in my own head. I thought I was helping. I thought I was stepping in before something worse happened.

My jaw tightens again, but this time it’s not anger pushing up. It’s something quieter. Something harder to deal with, something I’m not used to dealing with.

“You’re right,” I say finally, the words coming out lower than before, stripped of the edge I usually carry. “I didn’t think past the moment.”

I hold his gaze, not looking away, not trying to soften it or escape it.

“I saw you getting pushed into something you couldn’t handle in that state,” I continue, my voice steady but different now, less about control, more about admitting what I didn’t want to before. “And I reacted. But I didn’t think about what would happen after,” I admit. “I didn’t think about the fallout landing on you instead of me.”

The silence stretches again, but it feels different this time. It’s heavier, more honest.

“I didn’t mean for you to get hurt,” I add, quieter now, but no less certain. “But that doesn’t change the fact that you did.”

“Yeah, I did. Now, take me home, or I can call a rideshare.” He drops his head on the back of the couch and takes a breath. Like he can cleanse the air of our conversation.

“I want you to stay.”

“Look, the sooner you find a new charity case, the better for both of us.” His voice has lost its edge. He starts to stand, but I place my hand on his forearm.

“Please, Jaxon. I don’t think you’re a charity case, that’s not why I’m doing this.” The second the words leave my mouth, I see it. That subtle shift. Like I just stepped on something I shouldn’t have. His body stills under my hand for half a second, and then the tension comes back, not explosive, not sharp like before, but something quieter. His eyes lift to mine slowly, and there’s no fire in them this time.

“Then what am I?” he asks, his voice low, rough, stripped of the bite it had before but heavier for it. I don’t answer right away. Because this is the question I’ve been avoiding. The one I don’t fully understand myself.