She steps through and lets it bang the frame the way a challenge hits a chest. Even before I lift my head, I know it is her. Anger has a weight to it when it belongs to someone who has learned not to spend it on small things.
Her hair is half-unpinned as if the day has shaken the pins loose and she hasn’t bothered to put them back. Her eyes are the precise, saturated color I have never learned a word for.
“I hate you,” she announces. There is no heat wasted on it; the temperature is all in the eyes. “You can’t keep me here.”
I stand carefully. She watches the pace of my rising as if it is a trick and she wants to see the sleight of hand. “But you’re still here,” I answer.
Her breath hikes. “Don’t do that.” She shakes her head. “Don’t make that sound like choice.”
“Tell me what you want it to sound like.” I step forward into the circle of lamplight. “Tell me if you came because you intend to leave or because something in you knows I won’t let you walk out of this angry without giving you something better to carry.”
She laughs and it is a short, disbelieving sound that isn’t humor. “You want to give me something?” she asks. “Give me back the minutes where I didn’t know you were willing to call me useful for now.”
I take the pain. I don’t try to argue with the noun. If a blade is honest, you don’t insult it by pretending it’s a spoon.
The space between us feels like heat rising off stone after rain.
“Aurora,” I breathe out. “Do you want to run? Truly. Do you want distance, doors, lawyers, cameras, the feeling of fresh air that will last exactly as long as it takes for Caldwell to realize the angle I’m no longer denying him is accessible? Or do youwant to find out what happens if you stop fighting me for an hour and use me for exactly what I’m for?”
She flinches at the last question. The muscles at the hinge of her jaw ease, then tighten again like a hand around a rope. There is no reduction in the fury. There is an addition: the thing that happens when two truths live in the same body and decide they don’t need to kill each other.
I extend my hand. “If you stay,” I whisper. “You submit. Completely. Right now. You keep every tool we practice—your words, signals, and boundaries. You can stop this whenever you need. But if you stay, you put the fight down and let me direct the storm. I won’t lie to you: this won’t be gentle. It will be anchored and real.”
She stares at my hand the way a person looks at a bridge they’re not sure will take their weight. The seconds stretch, taut and steady. I let them. When she moves, it isn’t dramatic. It is a small step, and then her palm is in mine. Her pulse makes a shape against my skin that matches and disagrees with mine in equal measure.
“Show me,” she whispers.
I lead her across the suite to the mat.
“No blindfold,” I tell her. “You watch.”
She lifts her chin a degree in defiance and honest relief. “I’m ready.”
I use the words we have already built together. It would be malpractice to do otherwise. “This isn’t a game.” I stand close enough that my voice can wrap her but not enough to steal breath. “Say it.”
She swallows, eyes steady. “This isn’t a game.”
“You can stop at any time. How?”
“Say blue,” she answers, voice quiet and certain. “Or push your wrist twice.”
“If you stay,” I continue, “you accept consequences you won’t negotiate in the moment. You submit to my voice and my hands. You don’t perform it. You don’t pretend it. You either want this or you leave now.”
Her mouth softens. Anger held its place in her face like a banner; underneath it, the consent I wanted and would never steal, opens. “I want this,” she responds. “I hate you. And I want this.”
I nod. “Then breathe.”
I take my time and let her watch me take it. I unbuckle my belt and hold the strap in one hand while opening the drawer with the other.
“Hands,” I say, and she offers them, wrists forward, the delicate bones like a code. I loop the leather twice ensuring it is loose enough for circulation, and snug enough that she will feel the claim each time she moves. I angle her so the mirror frames her from shoulder to thigh. I step to the side so she can see me too.
I set her where I want her—knees apart, spine long, bare feet pressing into the mat for anchor. I touch her only to position. The hunger in my hands stays under the clean cloth of purpose.
“Why are you here?” I ask.
Her mouth went stubborn. The first correction. My voice drops. “Answer.”
She inhales sharply. I watch her pull her words from the furnace. “Because I keep fighting you,” she says, each syllable deliberate, “and I don’t know how to stop without breaking something I don’t want to break.”
