Page 95 of Into Pitch

“You crossed a line,” he rasps out.

“Funny. That's exactly how it felt when you kidnapped me from my life.” I counter.

“This was personal.”

“My point exactly,” I snap.

He turns to me and opens his mouth, then closes it.

“How does it feel?” I ask quietly. “To have someone dig where it hurts. To have your past dragged into the light and set on fire.”

His gaze flicks back to the ruined canvas, then to me.

“That was not your right.”

I laugh and throw my hands up. “You kidnapped me, Alex!”

Silence crashes down between us as we face off right there in the living room.

“That doesn’t give you permission—”

“To understand you? Because you sure as hell didn’t ask my permission when you decided to dissect my life.” I interrupt.

He stiffens, because of course he sees the hypocrisy. It’s right there between us in big bold letters, a neon-fucking-sign.

“This is different,” he articulates carefully.

“Is it?” I press. “Or are you just not used to being the one on the table?”

His breath hitches as my words find their mark perfectly.

“You asked me once what scared me. You asked me what I felt and you demanded answers.” I gesture toward the ruined painting. “Congratulations. Now you know how it feels.”

For a long moment, he says nothing at all. He just stares at me like he can’t figure out if he wants to strangle me or not. I’m not foolish enough to put it past him.

“I didn’t expect you to go that far,” he admits finally.

I lift my chin and shrug. “Seems like a miscalculation on your part.”

A corner of his mouth twitches, it’s not in amusement or approval though. Something else. Something I think looks suspiciously like respect with a wee dash of wariness.

“You wanted me to bleed,” He observes.

“No, I wanted you to feel. You taught me there’s a difference.” I correct him.

“You won’t do that again.”

I snort, meeting his eyes without flinching. “If you don’t want to be shot, don’t leave me alone with loaded weapons.”

Something finally shifts between us. It isn’t quite resolve or us being healed, but it is definitely a settling of sorts. A reminder to him that I am not without my teeth, even if he sought to defang me before dragging me here.

He steps past the wreckage in the fireplace, past me, and heads toward the sink. I watch him as he washes his hands of the act.

Touchy subject, indeed.

Silence isn’t the punishment she thinks it is.

Two days pass without either of us speaking, and I allow them to. I do not fill the space or try to correct it, I just let it exist as it is. Because forcing resolution before our little system settles will only produce false outcomes.