I press down on the handle and the door opens slightly, just enough for light to spill across the hallway floor in a thin, defined line.
Freedom is right there.
Clear. Immediate. Available.
And still, something feels off.
Because behind me, he hasn’t moved. He hasn’t tried to stop me or call me back. He’s just there, a steady presence I can feel without turning around.
I step forward, crossing the threshold with one foot.
“Stop.” The word lands behind me, flat and final. Not a question. Not a suggestion. A command.
I don’t turn immediately. I don’t react the way I know I should.
There’s a brief stretch of silence, and then I feel him shift—closer now, the distance closing without warning.
My breath steadies instead of faltering, which unsettles me more than anything else.
When I turn, I do it slowly, deliberately, refusing to give him the reaction he might expect. I don’t step back or flinch. I face him fully.
He hasn’t moved out of the way. He doesn’t look like he ever intended to.
Like he knew I would come back to him.
His hand closes around my wrist, firm and unyielding, stopping me as effectively as if I’d never moved at all.
The contact sends a sharp awareness through me, my pulse jumping at the certainty in it. There’s no urgency in his grip, no roughness—just something absolute that leaves no room for misinterpretation.
“You know you’re not going to.” His voice is calm, steady in a way that makes the words land harder.
My chest rises and falls, uneven now, because he isn’t asking. He isn’t testing me. He’s stating something he already understands. Something he’s already decided.
I meet his gaze—really look at him this time—without the distortion I’ve been clinging to. There’s nothing hidden there. No illusion left to soften what I’m seeing.
And I do want to leave.
The urge is sharp, immediate. I feel it in the tension in my body, in the way my weight shifts slightly toward the open door. In the instinct to pull my wrist free and keep going.
But something catches. It isn’t physical. It isn’t him holding me in place. It’s deeper than that. A hesitation I didn’t expect. Didn’t plan for. Didn’t want.
My fingers loosen slightly on the handle, just enough for me to notice it. My breath falters, and the realization follows immediately.
This isn’t about whether I can leave.
It’s about why I’m not.
I stand there with the door open, his hand still around my wrist, the exit just inches away, and I feel it—that pull, steady and persistent, anchoring me in place.
I don’t move forward or back—I’m suspended between the two.
Wanting to leave, and not doing it.
He pulls me to him, his hand wrapped around the back of my neck. He tilts my chin, forcing my gaze to his.
And then he speaks.
“You are my poison, Ivy. Don’t you get that? My misfit. My stray. I’m undeniably addicted to you. You run through my veins, and you’re potent as fuck.