I don’t feel like his.
And if I’m not his, then what am I?
That thought drives me back down the hall.
Barefoot.
Silent.
I stop at the doorway to his room—our room, now, though I still don’t call it that out loud.
He doesn’t look up.
But he knows I’m there.
“Raven,” he says, voice low, warning-soft.
I step into the room.
He finally turns in his chair, one elbow hooked on the armrest, fingers loose at his mouth. Watching.
Not moving.
I don’t speak.
I strip.
One hand at a time. Hoodie first. Then the tank. The elastic waistband of soft pants I wore to feel safe. I drop each piece to the floor as if it offends me.
I don’t make it a show.
I make it a message.
He stands, slow, carefully.
“Talk to me,” he says.
I shake my head once.
“I don’t want to talk.”
He swallows hard. Jaw flexing.
I cross the space between us.
Place his hand at my throat.
He doesn’t squeeze.
Doesn’t flinch.
He holds me there—just enough pressure to feel real.
“I need you to remind me,” I whisper.
“Of what?”
“That I belong to you.”
