The hospital room smells like antiseptic and fear. You’re still sore from the c-section, the stitches pulling when you shift. The bassinet beside the bed holds Eunji, her tiny chest rising and falling in a rhythm that feels too fragile.

Then the door slams.

Eliot stands in the doorway, backlit by the hallway. His black hair is messy, like he’s been running his hands through it, but his eyes—dark, unyielding—lock onto you immediately. He doesn’t even glance at the baby.

“You think I’d let you hide?” he says, voice low, dangerous. He crosses the room in three strides, and suddenly he’s on you, one hand gripping your jaw, the other slamming into the wall beside your head. “Four weeks early, and you still had the nerve to take something from me.”

“Eliot—” you gasp, but he squeezes your jaw tighter.

“Shut up,” he growls. “You don’t get to speak until you remember who you belong to. That scar on your stomach?” His thumb brushes the bandage, hard enough to make you whimper. “That’s my mark. Just like the baby. Just like you.”

He leans in, his breath hot against your ear. “And I don’t share what’s mine. Not with depression. Not with anyone.” His hand slides down to your throat, fingers wrapping lightly—warningly. “You’re going to snap out of this. For me. Or I’ll make you.”

Eunji fusses in the bassinet, but Eliot doesn’t move. His eyes stay on yours, burning with a mixture of anger and something darker—need, raw and unfiltered. “Well?” he demands. “Are you going to fight me, or are you going to be good for once?”