He leans in again, stopping just short of touching me. Close enough that his breath brushes my cheek, close enough that retreat feels impossible.
“When I got back and you weren’t there,” he says quietly, each word measured, “I nearly lost control.”
He exhales, steadying himself. “When I found out you were at work, I needed to see you. To know you were untouched. That no one had gotten to you first.”
First.
The word echoes, sharp and unsettling.
“That may be control,” he continues, his voice dropping, edged with something raw. “But protecting you is the only thing I can control.”
His grip tightens at my waist, just enough to make the message unmistakable. I know tomorrow there will be marks. Evidence. A reminder.
Not of safety.
Of possession.
I meet his gaze and almost wish I hadn’t.
There’s pain there, raw and unguarded, laced with fury and something deeper, something I can’t name but feel all the same. It coils tight in my chest, warning me that whatever he’s holding back is far worse than what he’s showing.
“Why,” I whisper, my voice barely steady, “do I need protecting?”
For a moment, he says nothing. Then he draws in a slow, deliberate breath, like he’s bracing himself.
“I’m taking you home.”
Not a question. Not a suggestion. A decision already made.
“Khai,” I say, sharper now. “You still haven’t answered me.”
“Not here.”
That’s all he gives me.
His hands leave my waist, the sudden absence almost disorienting, until the door swings open and cold air rushes in. Before I can react, his grip closes around my wrist, firm and unyielding.
“Hey,”
He doesn’t slow, doesn’t look back. He pulls me out of the confined space and into the hospital corridor, his hold relentless, his silence louder than any threat.
He doesn’t release me as I collect my things from the nurses’ station. His grip remains firm, guiding, a constant reminder that this isn’t a choice he’s allowing me. I move on instinct alone, hands shaking as I gather my bag, acutely aware of every second that passes under his watchful stillness.
He keeps hold of me as we head toward the lifts, his stride long and purposeful, mine uneven as I’m pulled along in his wake. We pass Tate and Ryan mid-conversation in the hallway. He doesn’t slow, doesn’t falter, doesn’t acknowledge them at all.
I manage a quick wave to Tate, brittle and forced. Her eyebrow lifts in mild disbelief, almost comical, before she waves back, unaware, or perhaps wisely pretending to be.
The lift doors slide shut behind us with a soft, final click.
He says nothing.
His grip shifts then, loosening from my wrist only to lace his fingers through mine, threading us together with deliberate intent. His hand tightens, not comforting, not cruel, simply unbreakable.
Still, he doesn’t speak.
In the car park, he opens the passenger door for me and guides me inside. He buckles me in himself, movements efficient, practiced, unsettlingly familiar. Then he closes the door and walks around the front of the truck without a word.
The engine roars to life.
