"Efficient. Not pretty, but effective." I showed him a few combinations, careful not to actually connect. "I'm better with edges, though. More control over the outcome."
"Show me."
I retrieved one of my knives, letting it flow through my hands like water. The weight of it settled something in me, that constant buzz of anxiety quieting to focus. Nathan had gone very still, recognizing a predator in motion.
"You're beautiful," he said quietly.
I fumbled the knife.
It clattered to the floor between us, the sound enormous in the quiet apartment. I stared at it, then at him, my programming stuttering.
"I'm not—that's not—" I pressed my hands to my cheeks, feeling the heat there. "You can't say things like that when I'm holding weapons."
"Why not?"
"Because I don't know how to process it!" The words came out too loud, too raw. "Beauty is the dress, the performance, the thing that makes targets lower their guard. It's not... it's not me with a knife. That's just function."
"You don't get to decide what I find beautiful." He picked up the knife, offering it handle-first. "And I find your function magnificent."
My hands shook taking it back. "This is too much. Too fast. I don't—I can't—"
"Breathe." He stepped back, giving me space. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to overwhelm you."
"Everything overwhelms me!" I set the knife carefully on the table, needing both hands to grip the edge. "Do you understand how badly I'm made for this? For connection without parameters? Daddy gave me scripts for every situation except this."
"Except being seen."
"Except being wanted for something other than my body and how well of a good girl I am." I laughed, sharp and brittle. "I know exactly how to make you want my body. How to make you need my skills. But someone wanting me? The broken thing under all the programming? I don't have protocols for that."
"Then we'll write new ones. Together."
"It's not that simple—"
He moved closer, still careful, always so careful. "Nothing about us is simple. That doesn't mean it's not worth trying."
"What if I hurt you? What if the programming kicks in wrong and I—"
"Then we'll deal with it." He touched my face, feather-light. "I'm not fragile, Bunny. And I'm not Gabriel. I won't shape you into what I need. I want to see what you shape yourself into."
"That's terrifying."
"The best things usually are."
I leaned into his touch despite myself, starved for gentleness after so much careful violence. "I don't know how to do this."
"Neither do I." He smiled slightly. "But I'm excellent at improvising."
"Promise you won't leave." The words escaped before I could stop them, small and desperate. "Everyone leaves. Daddy left. Promise you won't—"
"I can't promise that." His honesty hurt and healed simultaneously. "But I can promise that if I leave, it won't be without warning. Won't be without explanation. And it won't be because you're too broken or too much."
"Okay." I breathed through the tightness in my chest. "Okay."
We stood there, two damaged things learning to navigate proximity without violence. It wasn't comfortable. Wasn't easy. But maybe Nathan was right.
Maybe the terrifying things were where the real parts lived.
"Tuesday," I said finally. "We paint Pier 47 red. And after..."
