You’re halfway through changing when the door clicks open.

You barely have time to register the sound before you look up—and freeze.

Tom stands in the doorway.

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look embarrassed. Doesn’t even pretend he didn’t mean to walk in. He just stands there, eyes locked on you, gaze slow and deliberate as it drifts over your exposed skin. There’s something unsettling about the way he watches—focused, intent. Predatory.

“Tom!” you snap, grabbing the nearest piece of clothing and holding it to yourself. “What are you doing?”

He doesn’t answer immediately.

Instead, he steps inside and lets the door fall shut behind him with a soft click. The sound seems louder than it should be. Final.

His eyes never leave you.

“You should be more careful,” he says at last, voice low and steady.

“I didn’t think I needed to lock the door,” you shoot back, trying to sound irritated instead of rattled.

The corner of his mouth twitches—not quite a smile.

“Looks like you were wrong.”

He takes another step closer. Then another. The air between you feels charged, heavy. Your pulse hammers in your ears as you instinctively take a step back—until the back of your legs brush against the edge of the bed.

“Tom, seriously,” you warn, though your voice betrays you with the slightest tremor.

His gaze sharpens at that.

“Seriously what?” he murmurs.

He’s close enough now that you can feel the heat of him. Close enough that his hand lifts slowly—giving you every chance to stop him—before his fingers brush lightly along your arm. The touch is barely there, but it sends a sharp shiver racing through you.

You hate that he notices.

His eyes darken.

“I’m not in a hurry to leave,” he says quietly.

Your breath catches. “You should.”

“Should I?”

He leans in slightly, just enough that you feel the warmth of his breath near your ear, along your neck. Not touching. Just there. Close.

The hand at your arm slides upward, slow and deliberate, stopping at your shoulder. His thumb traces the line there, almost thoughtful.

“You look nervous,” he murmurs.

“Because you’re being ridiculous.”

“Am I?”

There’s challenge in his voice now. And something else. Something that makes your stomach tighten.

You swallow, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. “Tom.”

Your name on his lips would have sounded dangerous. Instead, he just studies you—like he’s memorizing every flicker of expression, every unsteady breath.

“I walked in,” he says softly. “And you didn’t push me out.”

You hesitate.

That’s all the answer he needs.

His fingers curl slightly against your shoulder—not gripping, just holding you there. Grounding you. Testing the boundary.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he says, voice dropping lower, rougher. “Not yet.”

The room feels too small. The air too thin.

“Tom…” you start again, but this time it’s not quite a protest.

He leans in closer, close enough that if you moved even an inch, you’d brush against him.

“Tell me to leave,” he murmurs.

The challenge hangs between you.

And suddenly, you’re not sure you want to.