Phoenix Maplewood they will never be the same; a fire in a flask to keep us warm

And then, like a bad joke with a punchline he had missed somewhere in his turmoil, she appeared in front of him. Oh. She looked as he would have guessed, and unexpectedly he felt something drop in his chest. Her words cut into him; so she knew. Of course. Anger rose in him like fire at first— not at her, but at Aditya.
It was foolish to believe the man had ever truly cared about him.
He stared at her, mute for what seemed an eternity. He considered telling her the truth— telling her how things had happened, exactly. How he had been comforting her mate, how his anger had risen and boiled over, how in the next instant his weight was atop him, teeth in his scruff. Nevermind that he did not feel violated; he knew how it sounded, how it would have looked to any observing. And even if Dawn did not care, it would have been satisfying— it would have soothed his ache, to feel as if he had wounded Aditya in some indirect way.
But he could not.
I'm— sorry, Alarian managed, finally. I know what you did— I'm not sorry he cheated on you. I'm sorry I was the one he did it with; if it helps any, he made me regret it.