The elevator doors slid open on the ground floor with a soft chime that felt too loud in the quiet lobby. Fiona stepped out first—legs shaky, lips still swollen, skin buzzing from the heat of Martin's mouth and hands. She didn't look back. She couldn't. One more glance at him and she'd unravel completely.
But Martin moved faster.
His hand caught her wrist—firm, warm, not bruising but impossible to ignore.
She froze.
He stepped in front of her, blocking the path to the revolving doors, rain still drumming against the glass facade outside.
"I'll take you home," he said.
His voice was low. Rough. The same tone he'd used when he'd growled *don't run again* against her lips minutes earlier.
Fiona's heart slammed against her ribs.
She tugged her wrist gently. He let go immediately—but didn't step back.
"I'm fine," she whispered. "I can walk."
