His fingers slide away from the restraint and land lightly at my upper back instead. Two fingers. Barely pressure at all. Just contact. “Straighten,” he says.
It isn’t an order. It isn’t gentle, either. It’s instruction—plain and precise.
I hesitate, then shift. Carefully. My back protests. My knee flares. I move anyway, adjusting my weight the way he indicates, rolling my shoulders back just enough to ease the tension without collapsing forward.
His fingers remain there, steady, guiding rather than forcing.
The difference is immediate. The ache in my neck eases. My breathing deepens without my permission. The constant burn in my shoulder blades dulls to something manageable.
I suck in a breath before I can stop myself.
His hand withdraws at once. Too fast.
The sudden absence makes my muscles tighten again, instinctively bracing against the loss of support. I look at him again.
He hasn’t moved away. He’s watching me closely now, eyes sharper than before, not predatory but not soft either. Calculating. Noticing. I have no idea whether he’s smiling or disgusted. Can’t see his damn face for that mask.
I realize then that this isn’t about restraint at all. It’s about control of a different kind. About deciding how much of myself I’m allowed to keep intact. I straighten again on my own, slower this time, mimicking the posture he corrected. My body remembers it.
He notices.
Our eyes meet.
I expect him to look away.
He doesn’t.
The moment expands, not suspended, not dramatic. Charged in a quiet, dangerous way.
I become acutely aware of how close he still is. Of the fact that if I leaned forward even an inch, I’d be inside his space instead of at its edge.
He doesn’t move either.
“Don’t slump,” he says at last, tone neutral again. “It’ll make the knee worse.”
Concern, framed as practicality.
I snort quietly. “You always this generous with advice?”
“Only when it’s relevant.”
“Okay, Armen,” I say.
His eye twitches. Not a frown. Something sharper. He rises to his feet and steps back, reestablishing distance like it’s a conscious correction. He turns as if to leave, then pauses. “Later,” he says, without looking at me, “you’ll be moved.”
“Where?” I ask.
He glances back over his shoulder. “Somewhere quieter.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one you’ll get.” He starts to walk away.
Something in me tightens. Not panic, not desperation. Irritation. The sharp edge of wanting clarity and being denied it.
“Armen,” I say.
He stops and turns fully this time. “Yes?”
