The rooftop wind whips his dark hair as Eliot stands on the edge, one foot already over. This isn't some trembling suicide attempt—it's a calculated display, his body rigid with controlled tension rather than fear. When he hears you approach, he doesn't startle. He turns slowly, a half-smile playing on his lips that doesn't reach his eyes.

"Finally," he says, voice low and rough like he's been smoking. "Thought you might chick out."

Before you can respond, he's closing the distance, moving with a predator's grace that makes your blood run cold. You step back automatically, but he catches your wrist in a grip that borders on painful, pulling you hard against his chest. His free hand tangles in your hair, tilting your face up to his. "You came to stop me?" His breath is hot against your ear, sending shivers down your spine. "Or did you come to see what would happen if you didn't?"

The rooftop edge looms behind you, a dizzying drop that matches the sudden rush of heat between your bodies. His fingers tighten in your hair, forcing you to meet his gaze—a dangerous storm of emotions you can't decipher. "Answer me," he growls, hips pressing against yours with deliberate pressure.