Page 32 of Dose

Theon followed me. Some part of me hates being seen like this. The rest of me grabs hold of his voice.

He does not touch me. He crouches a meter away.

“Four counts in,” he says. “With me.”

“I know what this is. Sympathetic overactivation, conditioned threat response to autonomy cues. It will peak and resolve within⁠—”

“Stop analyzing it. Breathe.”

“Analyzing is all I have.”

“Not anymore. Look at me.”

I look. He breathes in for four exaggerated counts, slow enough for me to follow. I lock onto the rhythm, and we breathe together. The corridor hums. Behind us, the family laughs at the television, impossibly far away.

“The conditioning thinks freedom will kill you,” he says. “It kept you alive where wanting things was dangerous. It hasn’t learned that you’re somewhere else now.”

“Tell it.” A broken laugh escapes me. “It doesn’t take my calls.”

“It will. It takes time, and I still get vetoed some mornings, but it learns.”

“He said whatever I want.” It sounds absurd aloud, but Theon will understand. “Nobody has ever said that to me. I didn’t know what to do with my hands.”

“You don’t have to decide now. You can eat it, leave it, or choose tomorrow.”

The peak passes. My vision clears at the edges, and my heart slows toward believable numbers. I become aware of the concrete beneath me and of Theon still waiting a meter away.

I lift my head without composing my face first. He sees the tears and the gratitude, but there is something else now, something that has been growing for eight days.

His expression changes. The care remains. The restraint does not.

“Isla.” My name comes out rough, half warning.

“Yes.” I do not know which question I am answering. Maybe all of them.

He moves.

Not quickly. He gives me every second in which to turn away, and I use none of them. He takes my hands and draws me to my feet, then crowds me back against the wall. One forearm braces above my head. His other hand settles on my waist, fingers spreading as his body closes around mine.

“Tell me to step back,” he says.

“I don’t want you to.”

I grip the front of his shirt and pull him the final inch closer.

I can feel him hard against my hip. The discovery sends heat through me, sharp enough to steal my breath. My gasp makes his hand tighten at my waist, and his hips press forward once, slow and deliberate. Friction moves through the layers between us. A moan escapes me.

I have never made that sound before. His eyes darken at the knowledge.

“I want you,” he says. “I’ve wanted you since the archive. Every touch since then has been rationing, and I’m out of ration. I know I should step back. I know what they took from you, and I should give you all the time they never did.” His forehead nearly touches mine. “But I cannot make myself move away when you look at me like this. So tell me if this isn’t what you want.”

“It is.”

“Tell me what you want.”

The words that broke me an hour ago return. This time, the floor remains beneath my feet.

“I don’t want you to step back. I don’t know what I’m doing, but I want your hands on me. I want more of this.” My voice shakes. “I choose it. I want that on the record.”