"I don't understand."
"Yes," he says calmly, "you do. Don't pretend."
He turns his back, straightens his mask over his cheeks, and moves toward the glass door.
I step in front of him. "Where the hell do you think you're going?"
"My apartment." The infuriating control is still there. He brushes me aside, but when he takes his next step, I am there. He bumps into my chest, and his eyes flash.
I relish his anger.
"I'm finished with you," he growls. "Let me get on with my life."
"I don't think you can," I answer, bravado bolstering my words.
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