Daniel flinches, just slightly, and you hate that part of you notices with satisfaction. Not because you want a fight. You don’t. But because bullies are always most themselves when everyone else is smaller. Watching him measure Michael for the possibility of consequence is like watching sunlight hit mold. Ugly things go visible all at once.
“I’m not doing this,” Daniel says. “I have work in an hour. She’s upset. You’re making it worse. I’ll talk to her later when she calms down.”
“No,” you say again.
The word is starting to feel like a new language.
You step to the table, reach into your purse, and place a folded paper beside Michael’s coffee mug. It is the printout from the county clerk’s website you pulled up at 2:11 a.m. after Michael texted he was coming, the one listing the steps for filing an emergency protective order in Franklin County. Underneath it is another page. The number for a domestic violence hotline. Michael looks down at the papers, then back up at you, and nods almost imperceptibly.
