[He laughs instead; a short, incredulous, humorless thing as she dismisses him. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knows that compared to everything she shared and the complexity of her own situation, this should mean little— it should be an inconsequential thing, and yet it isn't.

Setting the record straight suddenly feels imperative.]

You don't believe me.

[It's not a question, though he does raise a brow as he makes his observation.

Leaving his tea, he braces both hands against the island and pushes himself to his feet, and for the second time this evening, proceeds to circle around to the other side— this time with slow, measured, deliberate steps.]

I've near as many secrets as you, but if you think that I would be dishonest with you in this, you are sorely mistaken— or do you really think me the kind of man who would involve myself with another were my heart otherwise spoken for?