He turns to face me fully, his jaw tight. "That's the only reason you're here? Out of fear?"
"What other reason would there be?" I ask, keeping my voice steady even though my heart is racing.
He frowns then steps closer, close enough that I can smell his cologne, that familiar scent. "You could've just called me back, told me you were coming home."
"I'm not going back to that house," I say firmly. "Not after everything that happened, not after you told me to run."
"I was angry," he says, his voice dropping lower. "I said things I didn't mean."
"You meant every word," I counter. "You always mean what you say when you're angry, that's when the truth comes out."
He reaches up and cups my face with both hands, his touch surprisingly gentle. "The truth is that I can't function without you, I haven't slept properly in a week, I can barely think straight, every moment you're not with me feels like I'm suffocating."
I close my eyes, trying not to let his words affect me. "That's not love, Ilay, that's obsession."
"Call it whatever you want," he says, his thumb brushing across my cheek. "But it doesn't change the fact that you're mine, that you've always been mine, from the moment I saw you, you belonged to me."
"People don't belong to other people," I whisper, opening my eyes to look at him. "That's slavery."
"Then let me be your slave." His voice drops, rough at the edges. "I'll wear your chains. I'll kneel at your feet. I'll let you own every part of me if that's what it takes for you to understand."
"Ilay..."
"You belong to me," he says with absolute certainty. "The same way I belong to you, whether you want to admit it or not."
I swallow hard, my resolve wavering. "Why did you agree to meet me here? You could've just refused, could've demanded I come to you."
"I would've agreed to meet you in hell itself if it meant seeing you again," he says, his eyes searching mine with an intensity that makes my breath catch. "Do you have any idea what this week has been like for me? Knowing you were so close but completely out of my reach? I've been losing my mind, Iris, every single day without you has felt like dying slowly."
"You're the one who told me to leave," I remind him, my voice breaking slightly.
"I know," he says, his forehead dropping to rest against mine. "I know, and I've regretted it every second since you walked out that door, I've replayed that moment a thousand times, wishing I could take it back." We stand there for amoment, breathing the same air, the tension between us so thick I can barely think straight.
"Why are we doing this to each other?" I ask quietly. "Why can't we just let go?"
"You know why," he says. "You feel it just as much as I do, this thing between us, it's not something you can just walk away from, it's in our blood now, in our bones."
"I have to try," I whisper. "People keep getting hurt when I'm around you."
"Then let them get hurt," he says, his voice hard. "I don't care about anyone else, I only care about you, the rest of the world can burn for all I care."
"That's the problem," I say, pulling back slightly to look at him. "You don't care about anything except what you want, you don't see the damage you cause, the lives you destroy."
"I see it," he says. "I just don't give a fuck, not when the alternative is losing you, I would rather watch the world end than lose you." Silence falls between us, heavy with everything we're not saying, all the impossible choices, all the pain we've caused each other.
Then he steps even closer, eliminating the last bit of space between our bodies, his hand moving from my face to the back of my neck, his fingers threading through my hair. "Iris," he whispers, his breath warm against my lips, his eyes searching mine like he's looking for something he's afraid he won't find.
Then he kisses me. It's not rough or demanding like I expected, it's slow, almost careful, like he's afraid I'll disappear if he moves too fast, like he's trying to memorize the taste of me.
I don't know why I kiss him back, I should push him away, should tell him this is wrong, should stick to my plan and keepmy distance, but instead I find myself leaning into him, my hands coming up to grip his shirt, pulling him closer.
The kiss deepens, his tongue sliding against mine, his hand tightening in my hair while his other hand presses against the small of my back, pulling me flush against him so I can feel every line of his body.
I can feel the hard planes of his chest, the way his heart pounds under my palm when I slide my hand up to rest over it, the evidence of how much he wants me pressing against my hip.
He walks me backward until my legs hit the edge of the bed, then he pulls back just enough to look at me, his eyes dark with want, with pupils blown wide. "Tell me to stop," he says, his voice rough, strained. "Tell me you don't want this, that you don't want me."
But I can't say it, the words won't come, all I can do is pull him back down to kiss me again, harder this time, more desperate.
