“Say it," Hazel told him. “You chased me into a service corridor for a sentence. Spend it."
Jayden's palm stayed flat on the wall beside her head, not touching, close enough to count as pressure.
“You died," he said, voice low and raw. “You let me bury air. You let me beg a body that wasn't yours to forgive me. And then you show up—here—like I'm supposed to clap."
“You're supposed to make your speech," Hazel said. “You're very good at microphones."
“Don't do that."
“Do what?"
“Turn truth into posture."
“You're the one posing," she said. “Move your hand."
He didn't. “Where did you go."
“Away."
“From me."
“From the woman on your arm," she corrected. “Nuance matters."
“Hazel—"
“You want the easy version?" She tilted her head. “I chose oxygen."
Footsteps thinned in the main corri
