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“Are you feeling better?” He asks.
“Y-yeah,” I clear my throat, “It helps to talk. Keeps my mind off of where we’re doing the talking.”
“I’ll kill them.”
“Who?” I ask, thrown off by the awkward segue.
“The boyfriends.” He replies, his tone sharp enough to cut. “You better hope I never set foot in Chicago, Silver, because if I ever run into one of those bastards, I’ll cut their heart out and feed it to them.”
“Mackley–”
“Don’t.” He says, throwing me a black look. “That was a promise.”
I can hear in his voice that he’s serious. He’d really kill someone for messing with me.
Good thing he won’t ever come to Chicago then.
“That’s not necessary.” I say, then try to think of ways to change the subject. “What were we talking about before?”
“How big my cock is. I’m happy to go back to that topic of conversation if you prefer.” He says, the teasing and mocking side of him peeking through the darkness.
I laugh at that, the much needed laughter helping to dissipate some of the tension in my chest.
I close my eyes and tilt my head back against the wall.
“Thank you for telling me though.”
I peel them open and look at him. He’s moved backwards so he’s sitting against the opposite wall, his arms resting on his knees.
I nod, before bringing my knees up to my chest as well.
“You’re one of only two other people who know.” I admit to him, before adding half-jokingly, half-seriously, “Guard that secret with your life.”
“Bellamy has to know. That means,” He says, looking at me, “The idiot back home doesn’t know?”
I think he intends for that to be a statement, but it comes out more like a question.
“Not an idiot and no, he doesn’t.”
Possessiveness lights up in his eyes at my confirmation. It’d be impossible to wipe off the smug look on his face even if I tried, I’m sure of it.
“How come?”
I think about how to answer before I decide on the truth. “I work so hard to be strong.” I tell him before pausing thoughtfully. “I guess I don’t like people seeing me be weak.”
“You think your claustrophobia is a weakness?”
“What would you call it?”
He hums pensively, looking up at the ceiling. “You did what you had to do to survive.” He says, before lowering his gaze back down to meet mine. “To me, that’s the very definition of strength.”
A pang jabs at my stomach at his words, trepidation making the blood sing in my veins.
He has a way with words when he wants to.
“You’re not good at being vulnerable either.” I tell him, desperate to move the conversation off of me.
“Is that right?” He asks, his tone lazily questioning.
