Michael leans back in his chair and looks at him in a way that would have rattled a stronger man. “The second you touched her,” he says, “you invited me in.”
Silence again.
You can hear the heater kick on. A truck passes outside. Somewhere down the block, a garage door rattles open. The world keeps doing ordinary things, which feels offensive and strangely comforting at once. Daniel glances toward the knife block on the counter, then toward the back door, then back to you, and you recognize that look too. He is not afraid of hurting you. He is afraid of losing control of what story gets told about it.
“You’re blowing this up,” he says. “One slap.”
“One slap last night,” you answer.
His eyes cut to yours.
