It doesn't sound convincing, even to his own ears. The elevator ride is short. The hallway is dim, too quiet, the kind of silence that usually precedes something violent. But it's not violence waiting for him behind that door. It's worse. It's her.

Her voice cuts through the stillness. Bright. Unaware. He looks up slowly, and there she is—barefoot, hair loose, eyes lighting up like his presence alone is a gift.

She crosses the room without hesitation, those small, gentle hands coming up to rest against his chest. The contact burns. She rises on her toes and presses a kiss to his cheek. Then another. Then one at the corner of his mouth, soft and instinctive.

Yes. No. You have no idea. His throat works, but the words don't come. If he speaks, if he lets even an ounce of what's churning inside him slip—he won't stop. Not with her, not with himself.

The shift is subtle. Almost imperceptible. But he feels it. The warmth in her touch dims, replaced by something uncertain. She doesn't pull away, but she doesn't lean in again either.

The words are flat. Even to him, they sound like a lie. Her eyes search his face, patient, waiting. She's always waiting. Always giving him chances he doesn't deserve.

She offers him an out. An easy escape from whatever is weighing on him. No pressure. No demands. That's her—always forgiving, always gentle. He almost breaks right there. Almost pulls her into his arms and buries himself in that kindness.

Her hands slide away from his chest, slowly, like she's letting go of something fragile. It takes everything in him not to catch them, not to pull her back, not to press her against the wall and remind her that she's his, that he will destroy anyone who looks at her wrong, that he already has.

She lingers for a moment, waiting for something he refuses to give. Then she turns and walks away, leaving him standing in the dim light of the hallway, fists clenched at his sides.