“I know.”
“Did you?”
“Yes.”
His eyes return to mine. “Did you know what that would do?”
The question is quiet. That makes it worse.
“I thought if I told you, you would stop me.”
“I would have tried.”
“That’s why I didn’t.”
He laughs once, no humor in it. “Honest.”
“I’m trying.”
“A little late.”
“I know.”
He looks over my shoulder toward the bunkhouses, the fire circle, the women watching. “You could’ve told me and still chosen to leave.”
“Could I?”
His jaw tightens.
There it is. The truth neither of us wants to dress up. He knows it. So do I.
“I’m learning,” he says finally.
Costly.
Not an apology exactly, but close enough to make my eyes sting.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
He flinches like the words hit wrong.
“Don’t do that unless you mean the right thing.”
“What is the right thing?”
“That you hurt me.”
I suck in a breath.
He holds my gaze. Not cruel. Demanding honesty.
“I hurt you,” I say.
His eyes darken.
“Yeah.”
“I thought I was saving you.”