"You don't get to decide what I should or shouldn't worry about," he said, and his voice was no longer sharp, no longer edged with accusation or restraint, but heavy with something far more dangerous than anger—something personal, something exposed, something he did not offer lightly. The words came slower now, deliberate, as though each one had to pass through the truth before it was allowed to leave him.
"Not when it comes to you."
His gaze locked onto hers, unwavering, unguarded in a way she had never seen before, as though he were done hiding behind authority or control or distance, as though whatever armor he usually wore had been stripped away by sheer exhaustion and fear.
"Not when I almost lost you without even knowing it," he continued, his voice lowering further, roughening just enough to betray what he had been holding back, "
"Do you understand what that feels like?"
The question lingered between them.
He did not wait for her to answer.
"I saw the footage," he said.
"I watched you hit the ground. I watched you curl around that child like your own body didn't matter. And I wasn't there."
The confession was raw. It carried the weight of hours spent replaying images he could not erase, of imagining outcomes that ended differently, of picturing silence where her voice should have been.
"I was in a meeting," he added, the words almost bitter now. "Talking about quarterly projections while you were lying in the street."
She swallowed.
He dragged a hand slowly down his face, grounding himself. "By the time I knew, it had already happened. By the time I understood how bad it could have been, you were already telling me you were fine."
His gaze sharpened, not in anger, but in disbelief.
He swallowed, his jaw tightening as though forcing himself to stay upright under the pressure of it.
"You don't get to disappear like that," he said, not as a command, not as an accusation, but as something closer to a plea he refused to name. "You don't get to bleed quietly and call it strength. Not with me."
And for the first time, it was impossible to tell which of them was more exposed.
She looked at him then, really looked at him, as though seeing him clearly for the first time since they had stopped, her earlier defensiveness fading into something quieter, something far more vulnerable. Her lips parted slightly, and when she spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper, stripped of its sharp edges and wrapped instead in something fragile.
"I was protecting you," she said.
Her voice carried no edge now. It trembled faintly beneath the words, fragile and sincere. "You already carry too much. I didn't want to add myself to the list."
The words were soft, almost tentative, as though she were afraid they might be misunderstood, as though she hoped they would soften him.
They didn't.
Cassian shook his head slowly, the motion deliberate, heavy, as if each inch of movement carried the weight of a truth he had already accepted. His gaze never left her face when he spoke, his voice low, steady, and devastatingly calm.
"No," he said. "You were protecting yourself from being seen."
She blinked, caught off guard. "That's not fair."
"It's accurate," he replied evenly. "You don't let anyone see you weak. You don't let anyone see you hurt. You endure it and call it independence."
Her hands tightened in her lap. "I'm not weak."
"I know," he said immediately, almost fiercely. "That's the problem. You think letting someone in makes you weaker. It doesn't."
Her throat worked as she swallowed. "You don't understand."
"Then explain it to me," he said, leaning slightly closer, not crowding her but closing the distance just enough to make avoidance impossible. "Explain to me why you thought I deserved the sanitized version of what happened. Explain why you decided I would be better off not knowing."
She hesitated.
Because the truth was not simple.
"Because if I told you," she said slowly, "you would have done exactly what you're doing now."
"And what is that?" he asked.
"Trying to fix it. Trying to control it. Taking it on like it's your responsibility."
His jaw tightened.
"It is my responsibility," he said quietly.
Her head snapped up. "It is not."
Cassian reached for the door handle, his movements precise, deliberate—too deliberate. The kind of restraint that didn't soothe but warned, as though he were holding something volatile just beneath the surface.
"Get out," he said quietly.
The words landed harder than he seemed to intend.
She blinked, her breath catching. "What?"
He didn't look at her at first. His gaze stayed forward, fixed on nothing, his jaw tight enough to ache. "We're not doing this halfway," he said, voice even, controlled to the point of cruelty. "You don't get to sit there and pretend you're fine."
She stiffened.
"That's not what I'm doing," she said, too quickly.
"It is," he replied, finally turning toward her. His eyes were sharp now, stripped of warmth, all authority and edges. "And I'm not going to be complicit in it."
The word hit her like a slap.
Complicit.
As if she were lying. As if she were performing. As if everything she had endured could be reduced to pretense.
She looked away, swallowing hard. "So this is how you do it?" she asked quietly. "You decide, and I just… comply?"
His expression flickered—something strained, something frustrated—but it vanished just as quickly. "This isn't a negotiation."
That did it.
Her fingers curled tightly in her lap, nails biting into her skin. Not because she didn't understand what he meant, but because understanding felt like defeat. Because admitting she needed help, admitting she was hurt, admitting she couldn't carry this alone felt less like relief and more like being cornered.
Her jaw set.
Fine.
She exhaled slowly, sharply, as though steadying herself against him rather than with him.
"If this is what you want," she said, her voice flat, guarded, "then don't pretend it's for me."
Cassian's hand tightened on the door handle, but he didn't respond.
She opened the door herself.
The air outside felt colder than it should have.
And without looking back, she stepped out of the car—leaving behind the silence, the misunderstanding, and the growing fracture neither of them was willing to name yet.