"Why won't you tell me?"
I look at him. At the barely contained fury, at the set of his jaw and the thing in his eyes that isn't curiosity. He's already decided what he'll do with the name. I can see it. And I can't tell which terrifies me more — what my ex already did to me, or what DJ is capable of for me.
The dripping resumes.
He hasn't moved, but something in the way he's sitting has changed. Shoulders coiled, forearms flexed, fists working open and closed like he's fighting something invisible. He looks like he wants to kill someone. He looks like he wants to hold someone.
Both of those things seem aimed at me.
"You're staring," I whisper.
"Yeah."
No denial. No deflection. Just that one word, rough and honest.
"Why?"
He pushes out of the chair slowly, closing the distance like every inch is an argument he's losing with himself. "Because I've been trying not to."
My stomach flips. My brain is still half in Tennessee, still in bruises and fluorescent dorm lights, and my body is here, right here, with him standing over me like a storm that already broke.
"That doesn't answer the question," I say, though we both know it does.
"It does."
He stops inches away. Not touching. Close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating off him, catch rain and soap and something underneath that is just him, close enough that the space between us crackles. The room is suddenly too small, too hot, the air too thick. My pulse thunders in my ears, drowning out the dripping.
"You shouldn't want me," I whisper, the words shaking as they leave my mouth. It sounds like a warning, but it feels like a dare.
His gaze drops to my mouth, lingering there for one long, dangerous beat before dragging back up to my eyes. There's hunger there. And fury. And something that looks an awful lot like restraint hanging on by a thread.
"I know," he says, voice roughened to gravel. He leans in just enough that his breath ghosts over my cheek. "That's the fucking problem."
His hand lifts, pauses mid-air like he's fighting himself again, then very carefully — so gently it makes my throat burn — he hooks one finger under the chain at my wrist instead of touching my skin.
"Tell me to back off, Goldilocks," he murmurs. "Say the word, and I'll move."
I should. I know I should. Every sane part of me is waving a white flag, screaming about kidnappers and chains and trauma I haven't even finished unpacking.
Instead, I hold his gaze and don't say anything at all.
"I don't want you," he says.
The words slice through the charged air. My eyes snap up to his, a sharp sting blooming in my chest before my brain catches up and tells me he's lying.
His jaw flexes, like the sentence tastes wrong in his mouth.
His hand comes up slowly, like he's underwater, like every inch he closes is a choice he's going to burn for. He's giving me every chance to pull away, to twist my head, to say stop.
But I don't. I can't.
His fingers hover at my jaw, so close I can feel the heat rolling off his skin. My pulse thunders against the fragile column of my throat. The dripping in the corner fades under the roar in my ears.
"Wanting you," he says quietly, voice dropping into something rough and raw, "is the worst decision I've made in years. I've tried to fight it." He swallows, Adam's apple bobbing. "So I don't want you, Goldilocks. I fucking need you."
His thumb brushes my lower lip.
Soft.