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“I wasn’t your boyfriend.”

“Aw. And here I was about to make us Facebook official.”

His jaw tightens.

“This isn’t a fucking joke. You were gonna end up dead.”

“And whose fault is that?” I snap immediately.

That hits.

Silence stretches between us, sharp and loaded instead of empty.

Because we both know the answer isn’t clean. Doesn’t matter, in typical Blair fashion, I push anyway.

“You two don’t get to decide what I can handle,” I say, right in his space now. “And you definitely don’t get to play savior after dragging me into whatever the fuck that was, then disappearing like the world’s hottest witness protection program.”

That almost pulls a smirk out of him.

Almost.

“I didn’t disappear,” he says evenly. “I just made sure there was nothing left for you to fucking come back to.”

That stops me for half a second.

Which is so fucking irritating. Because the really fucked up part is that I get it. Like fully, completely, against-my-better-judgment get it.

And honestly? Fuck them even more for that.

Fuck them for making choices that pissed me off this badly while still somehow managing to make enough sense that I can’t even fully hate them for it.

I want to be furious. No, I am furious. But there’s still this annoying little part of my brain sitting in the corner like:

Well… to be fair, Blair, you were kind of actively trying to self-destruct.

Traitorous behavior from my own conscience, really.

“You really thought that would work?” I ask, quieter now. Sharper. “That I’d just go back to normal?”

His eyes flick to my mouth before lifting again.

“No,” he says after a beat, voice rougher this time. Honest in a way that feels dangerous. “I knew you’d come back eventually.”

That lands differently.

I fold my arms tighter across my chest. “Eventually?”

“We were trying to buy time.”

His jaw tightens before he continues.

“Time to handle Dante. Time to clean up the mess before it reached you again.” His eyes lock onto mine, harder now. “Time to make sure that when you came back, and we both knew your stubborn ass probably would—you’d actually be safe.”

The words hit heavier than I expect them to.

“And if I didn’t?” I ask.

His expression doesn’t change.