I join her at the rail. We lean, not touching. The house behind us creaks in that satisfied way it has when it’s doing what we built it to do. The world is a knot that tightens and loosens on its own. You can either rage at it or you can learn the ties.
“It’s not my forte,” I say after a while, surprising myself by admitting it out loud. “Strategy. Filing. Ten-step plans. I can execute anyone’s plan, but I’m not the one who writes them.”
“You asked for the right pieces,” she says. “That is strategy. You don’t have to draw the whole board. You know who should.”
“Atticus,” I say.
“Atticus draws the board. We work it. Spencer,” she adds. “And you, when we need a hinge. Maverick when we need a heart. And Conrad when we need a wall. It’s a team on purpose.”
It should make me itch. It doesn’t. It makes me…quiet. Which is rare. I let the quiet work on me.
“Come inside,” I say after a minute. “I want to show you something.”
She gives me a look that says she already knows but will let me be the one to say it. We go to my room and I close the door. The blade case is on the dresser. The simple one. Not the display. Not the set people buy when they want to look like they know how to hold steel. This one has three: a small utility, a narrow stiletto, and a chef’s knife Maverick snuck in as a joke because he thinks he’s funny. I never put it back in the kitchen.
I lay a towel on the bed, then the case on the towel. I wash my hands. I wrap a clean cloth around each handle because the ritual matters as much as the edge. I set the safety kit on the nightstand—alcohol wipes, bandages, butterfly strips, nitrile gloves, styptic. I check the cap on the styptic and the date on the wipes. I never skip the boring part.
Phoenix watches from the chair. Not afraid. Serious. She recognizes church when she sees it, even if the altar is a towel and the sacrament is steel.
“Color,” I say.
She takes a breath. “Green.”
“We’re not cutting,” I say. “We’re not breaking skin. We’re not drawing blood. This is sensation and control. You tell me where. You tell me when to stop. If I ask a question, you answer out loud.”
“Yes,” she says.
“If you want me to put it away, you say red and I will. If you want me to slow, you say yellow. If you want more, you ask for it.”
She smiles, small. “You always make the rules sound like options I chose.”
“They are.”
I don’t touch her with the blade first. I never do. I touch her with my hands and my mouth and my voice. I make the room small and clear. I pull the blinds enough to keep the world out but leave the window cracked because she likes the air moving. I stand her between my knees and trace the rope marks still faint across her chest and ribs with my fingers. Then I back away and let her undress to the level she wants. She leaves on a soft tee and nothing underneath. She lifts the hem once and drops it, a tease she gives herself. It’s for her as much as for me.
“I want this,” she says. “I want you.”
“Good,” I tell her. “Because you have me.”
I pick the smallest knife. It’s sharp and sane. I show it to her the way a tattoo artist shows a needle—honest and calm. I let her take it. She tests the weight and hands it back. Hands steady.
“Where?” I ask.
She touches her sternum. “Here. Then here,” she says, sliding her fingers along the line of her ribs. “And…my thigh. Outside.”
I nod. “No joints. No arteries. No face. I follow your map.”
I kneel in front of her, the knife angled away from me and away from her until I’m in position. I set the flat of the blade against her sternum, just the cool metal, no edge, and wait. Her breath catches. I don’t move until it evens. I rotate my wrist until the spine of the blade kisses her skin. I draw a short line up to the hollow of her throat and stop when her belly tightens. I look up.
“Color.”
“Green,” she says. Her voice is low, not fragile. Focused.
I go to her ribs and repeat the sequence. Flat. Spine. Pause. Ask. I use the air next, ghosting without contact, letting the knowledge of the edge do as much work as the edge itself. Her hands grip the back of my neck, not to hold me in place but to ground herself in something that isn’t imagination. She isn’t shaking. She’s alive.
“You can ask for pressure,” I tell her. “You can ask for nothing. Both are a win.”
“More,” she says. “Not sharp. Just more.”
