Chapter 9 · A New Hand on the Switch

"You didn't let go."

I said it before I even looked up. His palm was still flat against the bolt, right where it had been the whole time he was talking about two hundred and eleven names on a pension roll like he was reading a grocery list.

"No," Torin said. "I didn't."

"Move it."

"Say please."

I shoved my shoulder into the door anyway, and his arm didn't budge an inch. He was close enough that I could feel the heat coming off him through my jersey, could smell rink ice and sweat and something underneath that, cedar maybe, and I hated that I noticed it at all.

"You want out," he said, "you ask. You don't grab."

"I'm not asking you for anything."

"You're doing it right now. You just don't like the word for it."

I looked up at him then, close enough that his jaw was the only thing in focus, and for one second — one — his eyes dropped to my mouth. Not long. A beat.