He took a single, measured half-step closer, closing the distance slightly but still maintaining a respectful buffer. His expression turned serious, the last vestiges of the strained smile fading. "But I am also a man," he stated, the words simple but firm. "And a Ferrum, for whatever that name is worth in your eyes." He paused, letting the weight of his next words sink into the charged silence between them. "And I will never back down from something I've said, retract a statement honestly given, or allow myself to be intimidated into compliance, simply because someone dislikes my words and applies forceful pressure to silence me."
He locked his eyes directly onto hers, holding her slightly bewildered gaze. "You asked me to leave because you didn't like my compliment – a cheap flirt, perhaps, but sincerely meant in its own awkward way." A flicker of his earlier humour returned, self-deprecating this time. "Then, you tried to force me into submission with Spirit Pressure because I didn't immediately obey your command like a whipped cur. I respected your first request regarding physical space and boundaries. I will not," he declared, his voice hardening slightly with conviction, "bend to the second under duress."
He held her gaze for another long moment, letting the challenge, the unexpected declaration of principle, and the sheer novelty of his resistance hang heavy in the air between them. He saw the flicker of calculation in her eyes now, the sharp mind behind the icy facade processing this new data, reassessing the variables.
"You may not like what I said," he concluded quietly, his voice dropping slightly but losing none of its firmness. "You may find my presence irritating. You may wish I remained silent and invisible on that sofa forever. But I meant the compliment, Rosa. And I won't be bullied, spiritually or otherwise, into pretending otherwise."
He stood there, legs still slightly unsteady but his resolve firm, waiting for her response. He had thrown down a gauntlet, not of aggression, but of self-respect and refusal to conform to the pathetic role he had played in their first life. The next move was hers.
The residual tension in the room was thick enough to spread on toast. Lloyd stood there, legs mostly steady now, breathing even, the aftermath of Rosa's spiritual assault still humming faintly in his nerves like phantom vibrations. He had weathered the storm, refused to yield, and asserted a boundary based on principle rather than fear. It was a significant departure from the script of their first life together, a deviation that left an uncertain silence hanging between them. Rosa, still perched on the bed, regarded him with that unnerving, calculating curiosity, the icy disdain momentarily shelved in favor of cautious reassessment.
Part of Lloyd, the weary, eighty-year-old part that craved simplicity and perhaps a quiet cup of tea, urged him to cut his losses. He'd made his point. He'd survived the pressure test. He hadn't folded like cheap laundry. Maybe now was the time for a strategic retreat. Go for that walk, clear his head, maybe check if Fang had digested the small mountain of chicken without exploding. Facing this beautiful, powerful, and thoroughly infuriating young woman felt like trying to negotiate peace with a glacier – exhausting and potentially pointless.
Just leave, the pragmatic voice whispered. Consolidate the minor victory. Live to annoy her another day.
He actually took a half-turn towards the door, the impulse to escape the charged atmosphere strong. But then, he stopped. Another thought, sharp and insistent, cut through the weariness. He had her attention, didn't he? For the first time, perhaps ever, she wasn't just looking at him, but seeing him as something other than an inconvenient political necessity or a weakling to be dismissed. This unexpected crack in her icy facade, this flicker of genuine curiosity born from his defiance, was an opportunity. An opening he hadn't had before.
He turned back slowly, facing her fully once more. The calculating look in her eyes sharpened slightly at his renewed attention. He wasn't leaving. Good. Or bad. She hadn't decided yet.
He searched for the right words, discarding the easy platitudes, the cautious probes. No, if he was going to deviate from the script, he might as well rip the whole damn thing up. He needed answers, context. Understanding the 'why' of their situation was just as crucial as gaining power or feeding poultry to undernourished spirit wolves.
"Why?" he asked, the single word cutting through the lingering silence. His voice was quiet again, devoid of challenge, but infused with a genuine, searching quality. He wasn't demanding, he was inquiring.
Rosa tilted her head slightly, a silent prompt to elaborate.