DIEGO
Her eyes are on me the second I step through the door.
"Brought you a carne asada burrito." I set the bag within her reach and don't look at her directly. Tactical decision.
"DJ?"
Her voice is different. Not the screaming, not the fury. Something softer, more deliberate, and I know I should clock that distinction for what it is.
I move closer anyway.
"Yeah?"
She swallows. My eyes follow the line of her throat without asking permission.
"My shirt's riding up. Can you fix it?"
I look.
Mistake.
Her stomach is fully exposed, skin flushed warm under the harsh fluorescent light. I should tell her to manage it herself. I should hand her the bag and put the table between us and stay there.
My hands are already moving.
My fingers brush her skin first and the contact hits like current, immediate and electric. Goosebumps ripple across herstomach. I adjust the hem of her crop top slowly, palms grazing the underside of her ribs, and then my eyes drift up and I make myself look somewhere else.
I hook the elastic of her sweats and tug them up, thumbs skimming the dip of her waist, and when my thumb catches the faded stretch marks at her right hip I slow down for half a second without meaning to. Soft and real and completely unguarded.
Her hips tilt toward me. Instinctive.
I pull back like I've touched something hot. "Sorry."
"For what?" She shifts, eyes dark, watching me with an attention that has nothing panicked in it anymore.
"Got carried away." I put space between us and start straightening the room because I need something to do with my hands. "Won't happen again."
She tears into the burrito and watches me over it, one eye tracking every move I make, chewing slowly like she has all the time in the world.
I turn my back for two seconds to grab a rag.
The chains rattle, sharp and deliberate.
I spin. She's twisted toward the table, one hand straining, fingers inches from the ibuprofen bottle.
"Nice try." I cross the room and move it out of reach before she's finished deciding what to do with it.
The softness drops off her face like a mask. Underneath it, quick and hot, fury. "So what am I, then? Your pet?"
I step into her space. Close enough to catch the burrito and that citrus underneath it. "Keep pushing, Harvee. See where it gets you."
She doesn't flinch. Doesn't lean back. Just looks up at me with something that might be defiance and might be something else she's using defiance to cover.
"What if I want it?" she says, voice dropping. "Your hands on me. What if I want that?"
"You don't."
"You don't know what I want." She leans forward into the chain's limit, voice quieter and more controlled than someone in her position should be able to manage. "It's been a long time. And you touching me earlier — it felt?—"