She's got her arm pressed against his throat, of all things when he figures it out. He's in love with her. Like deep love he can't see himself distancing himself from. It grew like a tumor, at first he had thought it benign.
He had been a fool.
Leaving would hurt her, he's not sure when the tumor took up so much space in his heart and brain. Both scream at the thought of leaving the woman grinning at him. He can't. She asks if her grip is really that good, surely he could escape if he had wanted to.
But he doesn't, and she presses into him, an open taunt. It'd be easy to do a number of things, but he just reverses their positions. His arm is near her collarbone instead.
He seems distracted, she notices, so she slips out of his grasp, it's not as hard as usual. He's not sparring with her verbally too, like he usually does. She wonders what's wrong, she's on the opposite side of the small room, and he seems to have a delayed reaction time. She wonders if she could help. She tries to get the thought to go away.
She's human. She has nothing to offer him.