This couldn’t keep happening. I couldn’t keep taking the pill if it was going to turn me into someone who couldn’t control himself, couldn’t hide what I felt.
But I also couldn’t manage the pain without it.
I was trapped. Caught between physical agony and emotional exposure, neither option safe.
Eventually, Étienne knocked on the door. “You okay in there?”
“Yeah. Fine. Just needed to… take a leak.”
“Remember, if you shake it more than twice, you’re playing with yourself.” He laughed, and I nearly collapsed. “Let me know if you need help getting back to the sofa.”
I waited until I heard him move away, until I was sure my body had calmed down and I could trust myself to be near him again.
When I finally made it back to the living room, Étienne had queued up a movie on the TV. Something action-heavy that didn’t require much attention. He helped me settle back onto the couch and prop my foot on the coffee table. I was hyperaware of every point of contact, every brush of his hands.
“Thanks,” I managed.
“No problem.”
We watched the movie in silence. Or rather, he watched the movie, and I pretended to while focusing all my energy on staying still, calm, and in control. I fought to keep the drowsiness at bay.
“You can sleep,” Étienne said. “I’ll wake you up for your next dose.”
“Not tired.”
“Liar.”
Maybe. But I’d been lying my whole life. What was one more lie if it kept me safe?
“Just watching the movie,” I said.
His hand found my knee again. That same casual touch that sent electricity through me, that made it hard to breathe, that made me want things I couldn’t have.
I gently pushed his hand away.
Hurt flashed across his face—brief but unmistakable—before he pulled back.
“It’s okay to need help, you know,” he said quietly, though his voice had gone slightly flat. “It’s okay to let someone take care of you.”
“I know,” I said.
Because what else could I say? How could I explain that his care was both what I needed most and what terrified me more than anything?
I turned back to the movie and tried very hard not to lean my head on his shoulder.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Étienne
“I need a shower.”
I looked up from my phone, where I’d been scrolling through the team group chat. Marco sat on the couch, his expression determined in that way that meant he’d made up his mind and arguing would be pointless.
“Okay,” I said slowly. “When?”
“Now.”
“Now?” I glanced at the stairs, then back at him. “You sure you’re ready for that?”
