The confession hangs between us, ugly and true.
Wyatt’s quiet for a long moment. Then he reaches out, covers my shaking hands with his own.
“You’re not that person anymore.”
“How do you know?”
“Because that person was surviving. You’re not in survival mode now. You know the difference between me and an interrogation target. Between Nina and someone to manipulate. You know neither of us are him.”
“My body doesn’t know that. It just knows what it learned.”
“So we teach it something different.”
The simplicity of it almost makes me laugh. “It’s not that easy.”
“I know.” He squeezes my hands. “But you’re not alone in this. That’s what matters.”
I want to believe him. Want to think that love or trust or whatever this is between the three of us can override years of psychological conditioning.
But I remember too clearly what it felt like to come back from breaking someone, arousal and shame tangled together, Vicente’s hands on me like absolution and damnation at once.
“Thursday’s going to be bad,” I say.
“I know.”
“I might not hold it together.”
“Then I’ll be there to help pick up the pieces.”
After a while, Wyatt says, “We should prep the briefing.”
Professional distance. Giving me an out.
I take it. Pull my hands back, open the laptop, start pulling together the summary for McIntyre.
But the recording is still there. Still paused. And Vicente’s voice echoes in my head long after Wyatt and I finish running through operational logistics.
Wyatt leaves around eight, reluctant but not pushing. I tell him I’ll come to Nina’s tomorrow. He doesn’t believe me, but he goes anyway.
I don’t sleep. Just sit in the dark listening to recordings I’ve already memorized, waiting for them to stop hurting.
Around ten, my phone rings. Nina.
I almost don’t answer. But ignoring her feels worse than whatever conversation is coming.
“Hey.”
“Hey.” Her voice is careful. “Wyatt said you’re not coming tonight.”
I close my eyes. “It’s complicated.”
“Try me.”
“I can’t. It’s—” I search for words that won’t be a lie. “Clearance issues.”
The silence on her end is pointed. “That’s bullshit and you know it.” No heat in her voice, just certainty. “Whatever’s going on with you, your mental health matters more than clearance. You can talk to me.”
“Not about this.”
