His hand tightened around my wrist before he seemed to register what he was doing, as though instinct had acted before restraint could catch up, he dragged me into my room and shut the door.
For a brief moment the space between us tensed.
"Alyssa," he said, his voice lower than usual, stripped of its usual control, "we need to talk."
I didn't pull away immediately, not because I couldn't, but because I wanted to feel the weight of it, to understand exactly how much of the past he still believed he could reach for, and when my gaze finally dropped to where his fingers circled my wrist, my voice came soft, almost absent.
"You're holding me."
It wasn't sharp, but it didn't need to be.
He let go at once.
I rubbed my wrist slowly, deliberately, letting the silence stretch just enough to make the gesture noticeable, before lifting my gaze back to his, steady and unreadable.
"You said you wanted to talk," I added. "So talk."
