[She's right. He had been sure she'd hate him. But it wasn't only that. He'd felt vivisected, cut from his gut to his throat and splayed open; he'd seen the one person he most wants to hurt with their feet in the squishy red carpet of all his darkest secrets. Raw and brutalized, he stumbled upon her with his back to the wall and his hackles already up, and just like that . . .]

[She never really stopped panicking after that moment. He's starting to see that now. What's less clear is how he can stop it from happening again. Because he's not better than that. He's only as good as his worst moments, when the names of his dead friends are thrown in his face and he digs fangs deep enough into the world to draw blood and rend muscle. He will always, always defend himself. It's so far past a reflex. It's a compulsion.]

[So how does he get ahead of this? His hands draw back as her words trail off, one curling protectively against his collarbone, the other wrapping around the wrist of the first, a weak link of organic chainmail.]

Just because I thought you'd hate me doesn't mean anything about how I feel towards you. I'm . . . [He doesn't know how to put it, shakes his head.] It feels different. It felt different, then. Inevitable. But I wasn't thinking clearly. I was too upset.

[Somehow, it doesn't seem so dangerous now. Why is that? He's quiet for a moment, glancing at the way the sun reflects in the water. They're both day monsters, flashy and pretty, and very dangerous. It's complicated, what they are.]

[Haruno wasn't complicated. His mouth twitches at the corners, and he glances back at her.]

Now, though . . . you know my least favorite thing about myself. At least part of it. You might not even have figured it out from the exhibit.