I graze my fingertips over the knotted skin, then confirm, "It's gross."
"Is that how it makes you feel?" Red pushes.
I wait a few minutes, continuing to caress the scar, then lock eyes with him. "No. It's a battle wound. Love is worth every little scar you get."
His eyes widen. "Even if the love is only one-sided?"
His question stings.
"It's not one-sided," I remind him. I drop my skirt and return to my seat.
He shuts the closet door and sits against the top of his desk. "Do you sleep through the night?"
"Sometimes."
"What about the times you can't sleep? What's stopping you from getting rest?" he inquires.
I absentmindedly admit, "I replay the same scenes over and over until my stomach knots so tight I can't sleep."
"How long have you gone without sleep?"
"Real sleep?" I clarify.
"Yes."
I count in my head and give up halfway. "Long enough that my days blur together."
"Are you eating?"
I shrug. "Enough to keep the machine running. Not enough to enjoy anything."
He steps closer, still standing, but the shift brings him into my space more fully. His body heat hums with energy under his shirt. I try not to stare at the way his chest moves as he breathes. He prods, "Have you lost weight?"
I smirk faintly. "If I say yes, will you tell me to put a number in my food-tracking app?"
"I'll tell you that severe restriction alters brain function. That, combined with the lack of sleep, worsens obsession and magnifies intrusive thoughts. It makes everything you're describing louder," he claims.
I beam, "So I should eat a sandwich and stop cutting myself. Excellent treatment plan, Dr. Mercer."
His mouth tightens. "You know that isn't what I'm saying."
I stay quiet.
He takes another step closer, then drops to one knee beside my chair.
The move punches the breath out of my lungs. He doesn't touch me. He plants his hands on his own thighs, fingers spread wide. The crease of his trousers pulls tight over his quads. The shadow of stubble along his jaw, the faint line at the corner of his mouth, the darker bracket between his brows get my pulse going again.
He states, "I want to understand what's happening before you cut yourself. Not just the part where you pick up the blade. The part right before, where your chest tightens and your head starts to spiral."
My stomach flips.
"You feel it at night, even when you don't cut yourself, too. Don't you?"
How does he know?
Vulnerability and manipulation braid easily, and I let my own voice thin. The tremor that's been hovering finally threads through. I say out loud what I never have before. "When the lights are off, and he doesn't reply to my texts, I stare at his photos. Then I see her. I want to kill her. I want to do it in front of him, so he knows that I'm the one who's saved him."
Red doesn't flinch. "What else?"
