"Like The Forge."
He nods.
I move toward the doorway, toward him, and stop when I reach the threshold. He's not blocking my path, just occupying space the way he always does. The way that makes rooms feel smaller and safer at the same time.
"Have you ever brought anyone here?" The question comes out before I can think better of it. "To these rooms?"
A flicker of old pain crosses his face, quickly controlled.
"Sarah." His voice is rougher than usual. "Years ago, before she got sick. We used to come here together. This room, actually, was one of her favorites."
I look back at the suspension frame, the chains, the implements on the wall. Trying to picture Will here with his wife. The woman I saw him mourn, the woman whose funeral I stood beside him at, unable to find words that mattered.
Sarah was submissive. Sarah came here, to this room, and let Will do things to her that I've only read about. Sarah had what I spent four years searching for and never found.
My chest tightens with the weight of it. Will loved a woman who wanted what I want. Who needed what I need. He built this place, in part, for her.
And now he's standing in the doorway, watching me with eyes that see too much, and I can feel the weight of everything we're not saying pressing down on both of us.
"She was lucky," I say quietly. "To have someone who understood."
"She would have said I was the lucky one." His mouth curves, just barely. "She was probably right."
The silence stretches. Neither of us moves. I'm aware of my heartbeat, the rise and fall of my breath, the distance between his body and mine that feels smaller than it should.
I step closer. The first time I've reached for anyone in years. My body tenses with the effort of not flinching back, but I hold my ground.
Will goes still. Completely, utterly still, like a man who knows that any movement might spook a wild animal. He doesn't reach for me, doesn't close the distance himself. Just watches, waiting, letting me come to him on my own terms.
Another step. Close enough now that I can see the pulse beating in his throat, the slight tension in his jaw, the controlled rise and fall of his chest. Close enough to smell him, something clean and masculine, with a hint of leather and whiskey.
I raise my hand, press my palm flat against his chest. His heart pounds beneath my fingers, faster than I expected, belying the calm of his expression. The heat of him seeps through his shirt into my skin. He's not as controlled as he looks.
His hand comes up to cover mine, warm and rough, holding it against his heart without trapping it there. The touch is gentle, deliberate, giving me every opportunity to pull away.
"What would you do," I ask, my voice barely above a whisper, "if I wasn't broken?"
His eyes meet mine, and I see it there. Want. Restraint. A war between the two that mirrors my own.
"You're not broken," he says. "I'm not going anywhere."
The words land harder than I'm ready for. My throat tightens, and I have to look away before the tears can form.
"Why?" The question comes out cracked. "Why would you wait for someone like me?"
"Because you're worth waiting for." His thumb traces a slow circle on the back of my hand. "Because rushing this would ruin it. Because I spent years not feeling anything, and I'm not going to destroy the first real thing I've felt by moving too fast."
I want to lean into him. I want to press my face against his chest and let him hold me the way I've been imagining since the night he talked me through a panic attack in the stockroom. The wanting is so strong it aches, a physical pull that starts in my chest and spreads outward until my whole body is humming with it.
But the fear is stronger. The voice in my head that sounds like Craig, whispering that I'll ruin this too, that I'll give myself to another man who'll use my submission against me, that I don't deserve what Will is offering because I couldn't even recognize abuse when I was living inside it.
I pull my hand back. Step away. Put distance between us that feels like tearing something loose.
Will lets me go. Doesn't chase, doesn't push, doesn't make me feel guilty for retreating. He just watches and waits.
"I'm sorry," I whisper. "I'm not ready. I want to be, but I'm not."
"I know." His voice is gentle. "That's why I said I'd wait."
