"Again?"
Felix's voice cut through the suite before my feet hit the carpet.
"I told you I'd come back," I said, stepping past the overturned magazine table and the silk scarf that wasn't mine.
He was half-sitting on the chaise, shirt open, a jagged bandage across his chest soaked dark at the edges. He kept one hand over it like a shield and the other fisted at his knee. Yves hovered near the door, eyes calculating. The city glittered through the floor-to-ceiling windows, but I only saw him.
"You're not supposed to be here," Felix said. His words were low and rough. "Not after what you did."
I moved without asking. Fingers went to the loose end of the dressing. Up close, the cut smelled metallic. He flinched and then didn't stop me.
"Let me," I said. "You need this tighter."
He watched me for a long second that felt like a reckoning.
"Why would you care?" he asked. "You left."
"I came back," I answered. Not a speech. Not a confession. Three words that split everything open.
His hand tightened around my wrist before I could touch the bandage.
"Stay there," he said. The grip wasn't just pain. It held a claim.
"You're hand's cold," I said, because I had to say something plain. My voice didn't tremble.
"You always said I'm impossible," he muttered. "You used to like impossible."
"I don't like what you
