“I do not want to talk to him,” I say honestly.
Axel turns toward me, his expression tight with the kind of restraint that tells me he is already imagining several different ways this could go wrong. “You do not have to.”
“I know,” I reply, swinging my legs over the side of the bed, “but avoiding him will only make him more convinced that something is being hidden.”
Atticus’s jaw tightens. “I do not like him asking for you.”
“I do not like him being here,” I say, standing and reaching for my clothes, “but I will handle this.”
Axel watches me get dressed like he wants to argue, like every instinct in him is telling him to keep me upstairs and behind locked doors, and I pause long enough to meet his gaze.
“I will not go alone,” I add, because compromise matters even when I am sure of m
