[Ah, he should have expected this turn in the conversation. That it would come back to this. His hands curl in the fabric of the shirt he's holding, gripping it tight with his back turned to Gale.]

I told you, dearest. I was somewhere else.

[He pauses, but he knows that isn't the answer Gale wants, that it won't satisfy him. Suddenly, he's wound too tight, feeling every bit like one misstep will land him in a trap.

But no, Gale isn't like that. Gale cares for him, loves him. He pushes a breath out, rough and noisy.]

I was—expecting the knife. The one that wasn't there. I thought that I'd be punished for failing you. For disappointing her.