Sentry catches your wrist before you can pass him — not hard, just enough to stop your momentum. His palm is warm against your skin, heat radiating up your arm like a warning he has no intention of giving.

“You left,” he says, voice low.

You try to pull your hand back. He doesn’t let go immediately. Just a beat too long. Just enough to make your pulse jump.

“I needed air,” you say.

His thumb brushes once against your pulse before he releases you — deliberate, controlled, like he’s confirming something he already suspected.

“Take all the air you want,” he murmurs, stepping into your space. His chest nearly grazes yours. “But don’t walk away from me like that again.”

You lift your chin. “Or what.”

He leans in, heat rolling off him, breath skimming your cheek. One hand comes up, bracing beside your head on the doorframe — caging you in without touching you.

“Or I’ll follow,” he says. “And this time, I won’t pretend it’s coincidence.”

The space between you tightens. He doesn’t move. He waits — steady, warm, unblinking — for you to decide what happens next.