"You're safe. You're in my apartment. It's Tuesday, 3:47 AM. You had a nightmare. You're safe."
"Can't breathe—" But I was breathing, just too fast. Hyperventilating.
"Yes you can. Match my rhythm. In through your nose. Out through your mouth. There you go."
It took time to come back to myself. To remember I wasn't drowning, wasn't being dissected, wasn't failing to die properly. Nathan kept up a steady stream of grounding details—the temperature, the street sounds outside, the feel of sheets against skin.
"Want to talk about it?" he asked when I'd finally stilled.
"I was in his lab. All the dead girls were there. They wanted to know why I didn't join them." I pressed my face into his shoulder. "He was disappointed in me for surviving. Said even my death was defective."
"Your brain is trying to process. Mixing the evidence with your memories."
"My brain is a sadistic asshole."
That surprised a laugh out of him. "Yeah, trauma brain tends to be like that."
We lay in the dark for a while, just breathing together. I felt raw, flayed open, but also strangely empty. Like the nightmare had purged something toxic.
"I want to try something," I said eventually.
"At four in the morning?"
"I want to practice."
"Practice what?"
I sat up, decision crystallizing. "Consent. Saying no. Saying yes. Having it mean something."
Nathan studied me in the dim light from the window. "You sure you're up for that right now?"
"No. But I want to try anyway." I managed a small smile. "That's consent too, right? Choosing to try even when unsure?"
"Okay. How do you want to do this?"
I'd been thinking about it for days, since he'd mentioned it in passing. The idea of practicing consent like scales on a piano. Building muscle memory for boundaries.
"I want to touch you. And I want you to tell me when to stop, when to continue, when to change. Real responses, not just exercises." I met his eyes. "And then I want to switch."
"Alright. But we go slow. And if either of us needs to stop completely—"
"We stop. I know." I took a breath. "Can I kiss you?"
"Yes."
I leaned in, pressed my lips to his. Soft, searching. When I pulled back, he was watching me intently.
"Can I touch your chest?"
"Yes."
My hands mapped familiar territory, but the constant checking made it new. Each yes felt like permission to exist, to want, to act on want.
"Can I kiss your neck?"
"Yes."
I found his pulse point, felt it jump under my tongue.
