I shouldn't have let him pull me out of the crowd.
The streets were quieter than I expected—empty enough that I could hear my own heartbeat hammering in my chest.
And every step beside him reminded me that he was still… him.
The same presence. The same arrogance. The same calm that made me want to scream and melt at the same time.
We walked in silence. I wanted to break it. I wanted to ask why he had "saved" me, why he had taken my hand, why he hadn't let me handle it myself.
But the words wouldn't come.
Because maybe… I didn't really want to know.
He stopped suddenly. I nearly ran into him.
"Careful," he said, low and controlled, as if my heart alone was capable of tripping me.
I swallowed and stepped back, pretending it was nothing.
"You could let go of my hand now," I said, more to distract myself than to argue.
He didn't move.
"You know," I continued, keeping my eyes on the sidewalk, "most men wouldn't… help a woman in this situation."
His lips curved—just a flicker, not a smile.
"I'm not most men," he said softly, almost quietly enough that only I could hear.
My stomach tightened.
I glanced at him. His face, calm as ever, unreadable… and yet, the way he looked at me made it feel like he could see every mistake, every thought, every piece of anger I was trying to hide.
I looked away.
The car was waiting.
Expensive. Sleek. Intimidating. Perfectly him.
I hesitated.
I should have walked home.
But I didn't.
I got in.
The drive was silent.
I tried to focus on the lights passing by. Tried to count them. Tried to think about literally anything else.
But his presence pressed against me.
Not physically. Not even really close.
Just… there. Watching. Waiting.
And I hated that it made my pulse spike.
Finally, I couldn't hold it in.
"You think I'll let this go?" I asked quietly.
He didn't answer immediately. Just kept driving.
"You really think I'll forgive what you did?" I pressed.
A pause.
"I don't expect you to," he said finally.
His words were calm, quiet, controlled… and somehow worse than if he'd yelled.
Because he knew the truth. He knew he still had this power over me.
I clenched my fists.
"Then why?" I asked.
He didn't look at me.
"Because I can't change the past. But I can make sure it doesn't control your present."
I stared at him, my chest tightening.
He said it so easily. So simply.
But I knew him. And I knew that what he said… wasn't simple.
It never was.
Outside my apartment, he stopped the car.
I opened the door, ready to get out.
"Don't leave yet," he said.
I froze.
"Why?" I asked, my voice sharper than I intended.
"Because," he said, calm as ever, "you need to know something before tomorrow."
I raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"
He looked at me briefly, his gaze steady.
"You were right," he said.
I blinked. "About what?"
"That night," he continued, voice quiet, controlled. "It wasn't how it looked."
I laughed bitterly. "Of course. I'm sure that makes me feel so much better."
He didn't reply immediately. Just watched me carefully.
"I'm telling you this," he said finally, "because if you're going to work for me tomorrow… I don't want you hating me for something you don't fully understand."
I wanted to roll my eyes. I wanted to argue.
But I didn't.
Because part of me—annoying, infuriating, confusing part—wanted to hear the rest.
And somehow… I already knew I would.