He's quiet for a long moment. His fingers tap against the counter, a rhythm I've come to recognize as his version of fidgeting. For someone who claims to basically be perfect, he has a lot of nervous habits.
"And if I want to do it again?"
The question hangs in the air between us.
I should say no. Should remind him that he's my captor, that this dynamic is inherently fucked, that whatever connection we're forming is built on a foundation of coercion and trauma and really terrible circumstances.
Instead, I say, "You tortured me half to death, never mind the fact that you also kidnapped me, whatever you want from me, just remember I still hold anger towards you and won’t take it easy on you."
His mouth twitches. Not quite a smile, but close. "That's not very reassuring."
"I'm not a reassuring person." I stand up, take both plates to the sink, start washing them because I need something to do with my hands. "For what it's worth, I don't think you're a death machine. Well, not entirely. Mostly, maybe. But there’s a sweet little pumpkin pookie in there, waiting to be set free."
"You don't know what I am."
"I know what you've done. I know what you did to me." I turn off the water, dry my hands on a towel, and face him. "I should hate you. By every logical measure, I should want you dead. But here's the thing, Harrison—I don't. Iamangry, but I don’t hate you. And I don't think that's Stockholm syndrome or trauma bonding or whatever clinical term you want to slap on it."
"Then what is it?"
"I think..." I pause, searching for words that don't sound insane. "I think you see me. Not as someone whose programming failed. As a person. And I think that scares the shit out of you."
He stands. Crosses to where I'm standing by the sink. Stops close enough that I can feel the warmth of his body, smell the faint trace of my cum that he apparently didn't quite wash off his hands.
"It does," he says quietly. "You terrify me."
"Good." I tip my chin up, meeting his eyes. "I'd hate to be the only one."
He doesn't kiss me this time. His hand comes up, hovers near my face, and I watch his fingers tremble before he lets it drop. The muscle in his jaw works. His throat bobs as he swallows.
Then he turns and walks away.
But he doesn't go to his office.
He goes to the couch in the living room, picks up a book, and starts to read. In the open. Where I can see him.
I lean against the kitchen counter and watch him. He's not actually reading—his eyes aren't moving across the page, and he hasn't turned it in five minutes. He's just... sitting there. Existing in the same space as me.
For Jagger Harrison, that's practically a declaration of love.
I grab my own book from the library. The one with the dragon annotation, and settle into the armchair across from him. The silence between us is different now. Not the cold, calculated silence of an interrogator and his subject. It’s almost… warm.
We read, or pretend to read, until the sun goes down and the city lights flicker on outside the window. At some point, he gets up and makes tea. Brings me a cup without asking. Our fingers brush when I take it, and neither of us pulls away.
It's the smallest gesture. The tiniest crack in his walls.
But it's a start.
And when I finally go to bed that night, I don't dream about white rooms and needles and screaming. I dream about gray eyes and shaking hands and a man who writes poetry annotations like he's begging for someone to understand him.
I wake up at three again, sweating through the sheets, my cock hard and aching.
But for the first time in three years, it's not from fear.
Progress.
Chapter Five: Jagger
Ifuckedup.
