Page 88 of Unbroken

Shit. I don’t want to cry again.

He doesn't speak again until we're in the cafeteria, the air sterile and too bright.

“Thought she saidshewas attacked.”

I roll my eyes. “Seems she said she was, but what really happened was one of her staff tried to force her to get therapy.”

There’s a vending machine, soft-serve ice cream in front of me, half-melted. He pushes it there like it’s a peace offering. Or maybe a truce.

I can’t look at him. I just keep swirling the spoon in it.

“You were shaking,” he says finally. Not a question.

I nod, barely.

“You don’t shake.”

“Yeah.” My voice scrapes. “Parents really bring out the best in you, don’t they?”

Silence stretches. He sits back in the too-small folding chair, his hands clasped in front of him.

“I remember the first time my father hit me,” he says. “It was just an accident. I dropped a drink and made a mess of the floor. I was five.”

I glance up. His gaze is steady. Not soft, but not cold.

“I thought it meant I was wrong. Later, I realized—he was the one who lost control. Not me.”

Something in me cracks. The spoon clinks against the plastic. “So… what? We just do better?”

“Yes.” He says it like it’s the only truth that matters. “We break the pattern. Or it eats us alive.”

I shake my head. “That sounds nice on a fortune cookie, but we’re not saints, Vadka.”

His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t argue. He leans in instead. “You didn’t deserve that. And I will never let anyone touch you like that again.”

I whisper it before I can stop myself. “I like whenyoutouch me.”

His breath halts. The ice cream in his hand melts untouched.

“I like whenyoudominate me,” I say lower with a soft smile. “Not because I’m weak. But because I trust you not to destroy me.” I can barely breathe. Why is it so hard for me to be honest and open like this?

“I like it too,” he adds. His voice dips rough. “When it’s you. When I know you respect me. When you give me yourself willingly.”

My chest feels tight.

He reaches across the table and wipes a streak of soft-serve off my hand with his thumb. Heat coils between us.

We’ve both been hit. Scarred. Trained to flinch.

But right now?

We’re choosing something else.

Not perfect. Not pure.

Just better.

And maybe… that’s enough to start.