I almost smile.
The thing is, I don’t want to call Mia. For one, I fucking hate talking on the phone. For two, I don’t want the performance of casual conversation. Yeah, hearing her voice would be lovely, but what Ireallywant is?—
My watch buzzes. Again. This time, it’s not Julia—it’s the automated wellness check, the one that pings every now and then to confirm I’m ‘functioning within normal parameters.’
I stare at the screen for a long moment. The little heart icon pulsing, waiting for me to tap it, confirming that yes, I’m fine. Yes, I’m stable. Yes, I’m the good soldier they made me to be.
But I don’t tap it.
Instead, I pull up the settings menu and scroll to the option I’ve never used before. The one buried three screens deep, labeled ‘privacy mode’ in small grey text, like they didn’t really want me to find it.
Privacy Mode will temporarily suspend non-emergency communications and wellness monitoring. Location tracking will remain active for safety purposes. Do you wish to continue?
My thumb hovers over the confirmation button.
This is stupid. There’s no doubt they’ll notice. Julia will see the gap in my data stream and start asking questions, if she’s not outright monitoring me right now. Marsh will get a report aboutanomalous behaviorand add it to whatever file they’re keeping on me, using it as ammo for the next calibration.
But for once—just once—I want to exist without being watched, without every heartbeat and hormone spike being logged and analyzed and discussed in rooms I’m not invited to.
I tap confirm.
The watch goes quiet. No buzz, no pulse, no gentle reminder I’m never really alone. Just silence, the wind, and the vast dark sky.
It feels like taking off a shoe that’s been too tight for years, like the first breath after being underwater.
Like freedom—or something close to it.
I turn back toward Chelsea.
Her light is on now.
I notice it from a few blocks away—that warm, golden glow behind the not-quite-closed curtains, a small rectangle of brightness in the grid of the city. My heart thuds against my ribs at the sight of it.
She’s home.
I slow as I approach, dropping lower, staying invisible. The rational part of my brain is screaming at me to stop, to turn around, to go back to being the version of myself that doesn’t do things like this.
The rest of me isn’t listening.
I drift closer to her window, close enough to see through the gap in the curtains, into the room beyond.
She’s there.
On the bed.
And she’s?—
My breath catches.
Oh, fuck.
She’s lying back against the pillows, wearing a robe that’s fallen open. One hand disappears beneath the sheets, moving in slow, deliberate circles doing something I can’t see but desperately want to. The other grips the sheets beside her hip, knuckles white.
Her head is tilted back, lips parted, wet and soft and delectable. Even from here, I can see the flush spreading down her throat, the way her chest rises and falls with each unsteady breath.
You should leave, you fucking creep.
The thought is coming from another galaxy, something I know I should feel but can’t quite reach. What I feel instead is heat, a tightening low in my stomach that spreads outward, downward, until my whole body is humming with it. That powerful urge to fuck.
