The blue lighting of the hidden room was fitting, she thought, cold and unreachable as she currently felt. Surrounded by scores of cataloged footage, formatted into volumes on racks upon racks of shelves, she leaned forward in her chair, elbows atop her cluttered desk. Facing the multiple screens stacked and mounted on the wall atop her assorted equipment, she pressed her knuckles to her forehead, staring past the duplicate, glowing images of him on their glassy surfaces.

Her archive was fairly sizable, yet Helga felt like her world was small, reduced in scope by the cold lights' faint glow as she sat alone under her looming collection, flanked on all sides by the staggering heights of her starved obsession.

His smile, repeated on every display, couldn't escape her blurred periphery when she looked away.

A memory of her conversation with Dr. Bliss last year replayed in her thoughts.

'...Recordings of him? Of Arnold?'

'Oh, you know, everyone's recording stuff on their phones all the time...Er, s-so I have a few videos of him. You know, from just—over the years, that went into the video our class made, to go to San Lorenzo.'

'I see. And Helga, these videos, were they all taken with his permission?'

'I—of course! I mean, heh, that'd be pretty creepy if they weren't, right? I mean—lurking behind trash cans and making shrines is one thing, but secretly recording someone all over the city, I mean… That'd be crazy. No—he knew he was being filmed, y'know. He just didn't care.'

'…Well, if that's the case, Helga, then that's good to hear.'

'Yeah...'

'You know, the more we continue on with our sessions, the more you happen to be growing up, and soon you'll be hitting your adolescence.'

'Okay, yeah… and?'

'And that means, as you grow older, Helga, the barometer for appropriate or permissible types of behavior towards others shifts. In our earlier sessions, it meant continuing your rituals and practices as long as they weren't causing overt harm to yourself or others.'

'Yeah, yeah. No punching Brainy.'

'Right. Now, with that in mind, I'd like to revisit some items that we've already discussed, as you've been hitting new milestones lately. Would that be alright with you, Helga?'

'Uh… yeah, sure. Fire away, doc.'

'Alright. I'd like to follow up with you on something you just mentioned, first. I think the way you put it was, 'lurking behind trash cans'—'

'Oh no, I'm—I'm long past that, hah. I—gave that up, I mean—we're dating now! Why would I keep sneaking around, following and watching him for?'

'…Congratulations, Helga.'

'Thanks—I, wait, what?'

'That's a significant sign of growth, dropping your surveillance of Arnold. You should be proud.'

'Uh, yeah…thanks. Yeah, I am.'

'That's very good, Helga, and it'll only benefit your relationship with him. Speaking more frankly on this topic, Helga—it's important to try and curb any stalking behaviors before adolescence and beyond, where they can escalate and become much more serious, and veer unquestionably into the area of harm. Which, I'm confident you don't want.'

'…Right.'

'That said, please know that if you ever find yourself struggling with those kinds of impulses or desires again, that you're always safe, and encouraged, to share them with me. We can continue working on that should the need arise. Do you understand, Helga?'

Her memory of the session lingered on, leaking into the pit of her gut along with the rest.

Her hand hesitated over the computer mouse, cursor poised over a recent video file, one in a score of many. Her fingers hovered over the pad. Just a click away.

He was right.

Why should he trust her?

The unopened file shone its tempting preview icon on the glowing screens as she slumped out, and trudged a long, slow walk from the basement of Big Bob's Tech Emporium all the way to Phoebe's. Her declarations made in the privacy of her best friend's room were met with understanding and compliant silence.

And then, official plans were hatched.

… … …

Helga paused on the sidewalk, appraising the old, brick-red boarding house. The warm light inside poured out into the street, the grimy asphalt dimmed purple-pink by the lowering sun. His home oozed comfort, offering respite as well as an uncomfortable contrast to her own. Even when he'd invited her over, she never quite felt like she belonged. And now, without him waiting for her at the top of his stoop like usual, even less so.

She tapped her foot, resisting the impulse to text him again. She would on a normal day, yet the idea somehow seemed even less welcome than merely letting herself in. As she opened the front door and squinted through the kitchen light, she couldn't pinpoint why.

She evaded Ernie, who still couldn't wait to take her out for a demolition one day, the old man's knowing taunts and Arnold's effusive parents with practiced, offhand deflection. Plainly ignoring the fly-swatting antics and calls to 'Eleanor' by her boyfriend's grandmother, she made her way up to the second story and paused, staring down the end of the hall. The jagged lines of his drop-down stairs drew a beseeching path, and despite her second thoughts, knew that even if she tried, she couldn't tear herself from it. Gripping the vinyl sleeve like an olive branch, she slowly hiked up the stairs; drawn to his room—to him, as always. The loud creaking of the steps disturbed the air, sounding through the emptiness she deliberately harbored as an emotional buffer. Like foreboding echoes, she griped internally.

His door swung open before she even had the chance to knock.

She flinched back, heart racing. A part of her was ready to launch some face-saving, sarcastic jab out of habit, but the impulse died just as quickly as it came, along with any other conjured words she had prepared for her arrival.

Arnold; her heart's torment, her straw-haired afflatus, her divine beloved—looked like shit.

Whatever last minute cleanup he pulled did little to wash away the fatigue hung across his face, or the red-tinted blotches scattered across his slightly swollen eyes, the dead heaviness of his shoulders as he leaned against the door. She didn't look too great that day herself, she figured, but whatever weariness she carried herself with still left him eating her dust. He'd just showered, his hair dried in a rush, a ruffled mix of dry and wet and wafting that shampoo smell that always enchanted. When he gave a shaky exhale she could tell his breath was minty all the way from where she stood on the landing. He swallowed, looking both anguished and relieved.

They held eye contact, wordlessly.

She gulped, pulse quickening as she mirrored his pinched brow, hanging onto the unbroken suspense before—before whatever was going to happen—like a lifeline. He finally spoke before she could even try.

"I'm sorry."

Helga's breath blew out of her in a gust. She hadn't even realized she held it. Rather than bracing himself for her response with reconciling patience as usual, his body sagged with his apology, as if it'd just emptied him out. From there, he seemed to stop, try, and stop again, holding off. Hesitating with… something. She stilled on the spot as her thoughts darted, her heart racing alongside them, into the unknown. He bit his lip.

…Arnold?

"I am," he reiterated, sighing before regarding her tiredly under his furrowed brow. But there was still something else. What else? Why was he like this? She'd never visited him when he was like this.

She chewed her cheek with wary anticipation.

"And, can..."

He continued, struggling.

"Can I, just—"

He reached out across the threshold and grabbed her into a tired hug.

A deer in headlights with no warning, she let him. Permitted, he sank into the embrace, and if it weren't for his legs pivoting under him just right, she dimly swore that he would have hung on her like a dead weight. And the hug was long. His half-dry, fragrant hair dampened the shoulder of her dress. Awkwardly, her free hand wrapped around him on its own accord at last, pressing automatically against his back, the gesture sincere yet unsure. She swallowed, summoning the lost ability to speak again.

"Hey," her throat croaked out. "Something happen, Hair Boy?"

He didn't reply at first, his fingers merely tightening their hold around her before slowly relaxing again.

"...Yeah," he replied finally, quietly. "...But, I don't wanna talk about it."

…Oh.

In tense moments with teased unknowns, when he sulked or kept away in aloof repose, a part of her always wondered since they started dating if it was because of her. Intrusive questions would swirl her thoughts. What had she done this time? Or, what had he found out this time? Does he still want to do this? Or, what if he's just sitting on something that's hard for him to tell me? Something final? And then, there were times, like now, where they already had an understanding of what the Last Offense was, and things would either boil over or simmer down, unspoken.

More recently, when they knew neither of them were the real issue, there was less reason, or willingness, to pry. And lately, when he didn't want to talk, it turned out that she usually didn't, either.

Whenever she'd walk up and face the upbeat brick-red of Sunset Arms, or his arresting preteen visage filled her gaze, or when her attention idled through his cornfield tufts, she always entered the moment like she'd just closed a door behind her.

A door shutting out the booming voice of her dad, and as of late, her mom's voice escalating after. The sharp sound of heels clacking across the kitchen floor like a stranger in the house. Empty bottles clinking noisily in the trash as the bag was hauled out the door. Distracted mutters cast her way like crumbs. The vibrations of the front door shaking the floor and up the staircase, where she watched, whenever it slammed shut. The words she shouldn't have heard. And even the 'good' sounds, like Miriam finally returning home late last night after Bob couldn't find her. Because surprise, surprise; the recent clarity in her words was slurred once more, rejoining the old chorus of her father's blaring gripes. And the quieting, unfamiliar, rough tremor of other feelings he had toward her mother that Helga turned her ear from, leaving them too behind the door.

And yet, even more hid behind it, corridors down. Hidden in bedrooms; her own and her best friend's. In spoken words, in writing, motifs, keepsakes and volumes. In closets, and under pulleys and hatches, where her largest trove laid its beckoning call at the back of her mind as always, waiting for her undivided attention. No matter what had changed.

Again and again.

"Yeah, same," she murmured back, nodding. "Neither do I."

Arnold squeezed her just a bit more, letting out a heavy sigh that relaxed his frame. This time she thawed and gave in, finally drawing both arms around him in a proper hug, leaning into it along with him.

She buried her cheek in his temple, in the silence that suited her just as well as him.

The moment was interrupted by a soft thud on the carpet below.

They flinched apart, turning their heads to the sound.

"Oh. Yeah. That's one of the vinyls I got you. Jazz."

"Yeah?" He perked up a bit, and she couldn't resist returning the small twitch of a smile back at him.

"Yeah," She cast an amiable eyeroll to the side, shrugging lightly. "Apparently something obscure, but not bad," she added, recalling the guy at the record store who promised that her boyfriend probably hadn't heard it before, and that no, it wasn't because it sucked. While Asphalt Crayon Suite may not have been his biggest show stopper, Kenny Burrell was a favorite of Stevie Ray Vaughan's, and if her boyfriend couldn't appreciate that, 'then what was she even doing there?'

Arnold seemed to float away from their loosened hug, clasping onto her wrists like anchors. He closed his sore green eyes, his grin stretching slowly in a wide, full-faced smile like the words applied a salve to his soul. Her own twinged back under a weight that stifled her ability to match his delight.

"That sounds… great, " he sighed. His eyes drifted open again, worn but twinkling at her. "Thanks, Helga."

The line of her mouth twisted and curved in a failed attempt to straighten it.

"Don't mention it."

He gave her wrists a squeeze before pulling away to set up the vinyl on his record player. She let them dangle wistfully at her sides. A hint of elation she partly felt for making his day better teased the edges of the emptiness that numbed her the last few days. Her ears picked up the soft hum of his sound system as he turned it on, followed by a crackle once he placed the needle.

Slow, soft strums of jazz guitar broke in and out of the air. Scaled and punctuated with smooth, escalated riffs that never overstayed their welcome, they tapered off as calmer tones returned, ebbing in and out.

Arnold leaned against his outfitted bookshelf as the record spun beside him, his head tilted back, soaking it in. His box speakers thrummed at his legs as the treble notes touched their ears from above, emanated through his ceiling-mounted speakers. The tune paired with the sunset colors cast across the sky above them, lending an unhurried, downtempo atmosphere that complimented their burnout.

When he looked back at her again he nodded slowly, the corners of his mouth quirked appreciatively. She cursed herself for the squirming heat burning her cheeks, thankful he kept his gaze downcast as he made his way languidly across the room. His arm reached past her side—her forearms pricked with gooseflesh—to close the door.

Alone with him, in his room. Again.

She supposed the last outcome wouldn't repeat itself, but she didn't know how it could really end well. Even if it passed successfully on the surface.

The fatigue was still there, and whatever else he endured, but subtle signs of his usual good-natured ease peeked through. She could tell he craved rest. She did, too.

He motioned toward his couch. Her eyes widened, as if she'd just realized it was already there, folded out. And right next to his door, no less. If she'd walked in any further, she might as well have tripped over it. Like some hapless intruder. And why not?

She already felt like one.

The exhaustion in his features deepened at her hesitance, but something softened them as he shook his head slightly. He took her hand. She watched, as if it were happening to someone else, as he drew her back around the couch and sat down. She steadied her breath when he gave it a reassuring squeeze.

Trapped between his gentle grip and her own thoughts, she joined him.

He squeezed her hand again, earning a turn of her head as it swiveled to meet his gaze—feeling, despite his obvious welcome, like she dared to. The blotchy redness of his face deepened as he cast her a small, apologetic smile.

"Sorry, if I'm…" His gaze fell to his shoes.

Wait. Was he embarrassed?

"...Coming on strong," he continued. "I'm just—really glad you're here. I mean it."

…He was. She couldn't believe it, but he was, and the fact that even Arnoldo felt like a needy weirdo once a while brought her a sliver of comfort.

Maybe on a good day she'd have relished it, poked some fun or taken advantage. But he looked truly awful, and she hadn't had many 'good' days as of late. In truth, it crushed her more to have him so relieved to be with her, on top of everything else.

The very room itself seemed to swell with the rise of horns sounding from his speakers, their noise filling the space.

"Hey," she squeezed his hand back at last. "I'm glad I'm here, too."

I don't deserve this.

That smile of his broke out again, frayed at the edges. His head dropped against the back of his couch, his ridiculous hair further mussed. When he closed his eyes, Helga swore he looked seconds away from passing out. She bit her nails. Vinyl hit aside, with him so tired and thrilled to see her, this visit was already a bust, and she should probably leave before he actually fell asleep.

From the way his fingers laxed their grip around hers, that should probably be now.

Just as she retracted her hand surreptitiously from his to get up, his head slid down in an arc, and… onto her shoulder. He sniffed, startled awake from his micro nap, and swallowed to clear his throat.

"Um," his voice came out sleepy, unsure. "Is this okay? Just for a bit?"

Don't swoon.

…But say something, you idiot.

"Uh, sure, uh—yeah. That's fine, Arnold."

He slumped against her, and as his shoulder drifted inward she wondered if he was already far gone.

Okay, say something else, you can't just let him fall asleep like this. Criminy—

"Hey, Arnold, uh…"

He twitched.

"Hrm…?"

"I… So, uh…"

Seriously, say anything else. Just whatever pops into your head.

C'mon, girl.

"—Why do you look like shit today?"

She rolled her eyes at herself.

Okay, maybe not whatever pops into your head, doi!

He stirred with a sharp, unappreciative sigh, and didn't answer for a spell.

Her nerves racked up.

Okay please tell me he didn't just fall back asleep again—

"It came with the day I had," he deadpanned at last.

Guess I walked right into that one.

…Still.

"...You okay, though?" she finally ventured, risking unspoken territory.

The moment paused.

"Yeah. I'm okay," he finally muttered back, something in his tone saying otherwise. Her gut clenched. She squeezed his hand again, her grip strengthening when he didn't squeeze back.

He heaved another sigh, letting the weight of his head sink onto her shoulder again.

"...And you?" he eventually returned.

That clenched gut of hers churned. She hardened through it, providing her the dismissive air she needed to survive most of her interactions with the world.

"Well, things certainly aren't getting any better. But, what else is new?" she asked rhetorically.

His hand gripped hers back. Tightly.

"I'm sorry to hear that, Helga," his reply came, soft and quiet.

That gut churning squirmed into something else, and she crushed it down before it could rise up and identify itself.

"Yeah, yeah."

He shook his head before lifting it. With slow, deliberate movements, he leaned forward and shifted his torso at his hips, rounding on her. Under his comical hair and lowered brow, his worn, drowsy eyes surveyed hers with a focus she wasn't expecting before he closed in.

And kissed her.

Eyes sliding shut, she kissed back. Hanging on. Hating herself.

When he pulled away his body seemed to drift of its own accord until his forehead rested against her other shoulder. His arm came out to brace his weight on the couch with a soft grunt to stop himself from falling over her. He stifled a yawn and lingered there drowsily before making effort to pull back to his original position, moving at a snail's pace.

Helga rolled her eyes.

"Oh, for crying out loud…"

She readjusted with an annoyed huff and turned his shoulders to reposition him unceremoniously, his legs unfolding across the couch. He flopped flat on his back with his head in her lap, his expression reminding her of a cat that was stunned yet permitted being picked up, eyes wide and wrists hovering over his chest with momentary disorientation.

"There," she snapped, though unable to school the twitch tugging the corner of her mouth. "Happy?"

He blinked rapidly as he processed her question and new position, an uncommon one for them. Particularly lately. He rolled his eyes with a soft snort of laughter before bringing his hands up to rub the bridge of his nose. He shook with intermittent chuckles.

"...Sure, Helga."

"Smartass."

He dropped his arms to rest on his chest, beholding her with an inquisitive smirk before shutting his heavy eyelids.

"Did you just call me smart?" he asked at the end of a yawn.

"Tch. You, smart? Please," she scoffed, the ease of their familiar banter sparking a smirk to match his own. A return to form she missed. Indulging it felt bittersweet. "Only half the time, if that."

He upturned his palm lazily.

"I mean, that's really not so bad," he countered, ignoring her snickers.

"Yeah, right. Taking a long walk to get to that bright side, aren't you?"

"Somebody has to," he groused back, but smiled.

The music picked up, languid notes followed up by a walking tempo, the soft ta-tiss, ta-tiss of cymbals setting the pace. Arnold tapped his finger to it, easing against her. His hair jutted out everywhere, still flaxen dry-wet and absurd. She sighed. She couldn't resist anymore.

Aw, what the hell.

She weaved her fingers through his hair, cool and unrefined to the touch, releasing more of that shampoo smell as she gently drew her nails over his scalp. The weight of his head seemed to melt into her lap, his tired face looking as comfortably stupid as ever.

Okay, but seriously though, don't swoon.

He lifted his heavy lids again, his gaze dreamy and unfocused before blinking to clear it. He stared up at her, concentrating through half-lidded eyes. A bit too long, she felt, her anxiety building under what was beginning to feel like scrutiny. And why wouldn't it be? Didn't he scrutinize her even during nice moments? He wouldn't be wrong to, a voice in her head provided. Why shouldn't he?

"Sorry, is it—okay if I just…look at you?" he murmured, inquiring shyly. "If that's not too weird?"

It caught her off guard.

"I, uh—sure? I mean… why?"

He gave a soft, one-shouldered shrug.

"...I just wanna look at something nice right now."

Helga's eyes bugged and burned from the blush overtaking her face. Her voice broke out in an unbidden stammer before reining it back. She slapped a hand to her forehead and wiped it down, covering her face. And groaned. She couldn't see him, but she was sure he was waiting there with some pleasant, brainless smile.

"C'mon…" she grumbled, still averting his gaze. "You don't… have to say that, Arnold…"

"Have to?" came his reply, laced with a confused pretense that maddened her.

You're killing me.

He knew how she felt about her looks, however stubbornly she resisted changing them. She was who she was, and that was that. She didn't hide it, and only 'cleaned up' on the spare occasions that took a leap toward anything that might resemble classy, or nice. But those moments were rare, and often tinged with some level of desperation that wounded. She knew she looked how she looked, but had hoped he'd see… past that. And stop insisting on toeing the line when she already told him she didn't like having her appearance 'shoved in her freakin' face.'

"Well…" she led off with a scoff. "Not about, y'know… me."

She turned her covered face up toward the ceiling, out of sight.

"Sure, I guess you must not hate how I look. I mean, we are boyfriend and girlfriend. But…ugh. Come on. You don't have to… say things like that." She ground out the end with a lowered voice, abhorring her self-conscious discomfort.

He replied without hesitation, whatever patience Arnold had with her long retort evaporated.

"Things like what?"

"That…" she pursed her lips.

Criminy, Football Head! Don't make me drag it out…

He let the silence hang.

"Aren't…" she trailed off.

His hand grasped her wrist. She let him tug it away from her face, but didn't surrender a view of it until his other hand cradled her chin and drew it down. Fine, he could go ahead and look, but that didn't mean she had to look back.

"Helga…" his voice was drained, but resolute. "You're the best thing I've seen all day."

She grimaced, her insides squirming.

The hand at her chin shifted, cradling her jaw. She heard the gust of his small, amused scoff.

"Even when your face is all scrunched up like that."

She scoffed a laugh back despite herself.

His hands dropped back on his chest with a thump. He let out a crisp exhale, as if to say 'so there,' but didn't push any further. Her eyes were still screwed shut, but it was the best response he was going to get, and she figured he knew it.

'You're not ugly, you're beautiful.'

She rebuffed him that night at the docks when he said it last year. Then told her if she didn't believe it, to believe that he did. As if. But, at this point, she was willing to admit that maybe it was possible that he did.

But if so, then he believed it blindly.

"Well," she drawled out, "you musta had a real eyeful today if that's true."

Nothing. She eventually looked down when his response didn't come.

Her eyes widened.

"Whoa—you okay? You're not getting sick or anything, are you?"

"No," he struggled out, his ragged features queasy and flushed.

"...Food poisoning?"

He shook his head minutely, his eyes wrenched shut and biting his mouth shut hard enough to pucker his chin.

"Great, 'cuz I wouldn't be too thrilled if you yakked on my lap, y'know."

"M-me…neither."

The moment stretched.

"...So, I guess it was pretty bad then, huh?"

"I—" he brought his fist to his mouth in a twisted grimace, stabilizing. "…Let's not. Please."

"Okay sure, sure," she gestured over him, awkwardly. "Topic switch, you got it. Uh…"

She stalled.

"Pretty sweet jazz guitar in this one, eh?"

"Y-yeah. It's nice," he followed up, his voice less watery and thick, breath slowing. She ruffled his incredible, stupid hair again, her blunt nails drawing across his scalp. His face relaxed a bit, settling.

Good signs.

"It is," she sighed, dropping her back against his couch again.

They zoned out, letting the jazz draw them into a lull. It lingered on, carried off by the weaving notes, and she reprimanded herself for getting caught up in it. Really, she shouldn't stay here. In fact, a sad voice in her said, maybe she shouldn't have even come. He wasn't in great shape, and what she had meant to talk about… she couldn't bring herself to discuss it, either.

Just when she thought he'd dozed off and she'd have to wake him to leave, he stirred.

"...Helga?" he asked tentatively, his hesitation lifting her unibrow.

Even at her most relaxed, every moment with him was anchored to a core of tension that never truly released. When he regarded her imploringly with that face of his, more sweet, worn and vulnerable than she had any right to see, that pressure coiled around her gut and clenched.

"I know I already said it when you came in, but. I kind of just, blurted it out, and," he gestured his palms open, looking away. "I want you to know—I really meant it. I'm…sorry, for the festival, and…what I said during your last visit."

He looked so disappointed in himself. She couldn't stand it, turning away from the sight.

…But you were right, she thought.

He deserved it, but she couldn't accept his apology without feeling even more disingenuous.

Arnold touched her elbow gently, bringing her to the present. Her gaze nearly flickered to his before slinking away again. When she didn't engage, he slowly brushed his hand up the length of her arm all the way up to her shoulder, raising shivers that ran through her whole body. She finally returned his gaze as the involuntary shudders left her boneless and swore his eyes darkened before quickly shutting them—like he'd been caught. He took a steadying breath, and when they reopened his eyes were clear and focused again, and infused with care.

"I mean it." He squeezed her shoulder.

Her heart pounded in her chest.

"And I'm sorry things are, well… not getting any easier for you, too." He gestured supportively with his free hand. "You know I'm always here for you, anytime, but. I understand you still have your own private life, too, and… might not want to share it all."

He paused, looking inward.

"I think in some ways, we're both like that."

She felt a rush of earnest appreciation that she quelled before it overtook her.

That they related in that way; that she didn't have to explain everything to him. That he wasn't demanding it. The thought set off a siren's call in her heart that beckoned her to let go and crash against its rocks, so she'd never have to share or face what was going on with her, or all the things she'd done behind his back.

"Even though I can't presume to know what you've sometimes been up to…" he continued, causing her heart to stop, rendering her motionless. Her eyes blew wide, watching him forge on. With, what she recognized with a pang, was courage, even if he couldn't look her in the face as he spoke.

"Or what any… unintended consequences may be, or why…"

He bit his lip and leveled her with a serious look.

Oh god oh god

"I do trust you, Helga."

Her jaw slacked.

"I trust the reasons behind your actions, even if they sometimes… confuse, or upset me." He clasped her limp, useless hand and held it demonstratively. "I know your heart's always somewhere behind them. So, I—"

He sighed, and she sensed it—like he was surrendering something that was difficult, but that he'd chosen to let go of, to lighten himself regardless.

He gave her a rueful smile.

"I trust the feelings behind your actions…however nefarious," he added, smirking wryly.

The music picked up energetically, horns blasting.

She was sure she looked freaked out. Sure Arnold could tell. But instead of walking on eggshells or even addressing her discomfort directly, she watched in dumb disbelief as he chuckled ironically at the tonal clash.

His words mixed like oil and water within her.

They cast over hidden closets with questionable keepsakes, past schemes and dark rooms lit blue from duplicate screens, brimming over with collections amassed through invasions of privacy and trust. Looped over denial, justifications, and words from therapy that haunted. Suspended around thoughts from that morning that banged on the door of her unworthy wants.

Why should he trust me?

It took effort to breathe life back in her lungs, to ground her feet back down to Earth. To find her place back on the couch with him, a spot she'd only earned with hollow merits.

"Oh?" she countered at last, consciously tugging the corner of mouth in a matching smirk. If there was anything she could take easily, it was bait. A lure for normalcy, or at least enough for her to survive. "Nefarious, huh?"

"Heh," he chuckled back with confident, low energy. "Yeah."

Roll with the villain role, Pataki. It's not even play pretend.

"Well then, you better watch your step, bucko. You're dealing with a criminal mastermind here."

He let out a huff of a laugh, his voice hoarse and good-humored.

"Well, mastermind, yes. But I think I'd peg you more as a 'romantic schemer.'"

You have no idea, she thought bitterly.

"Oh," her brow shot up mildly, "so I'm a romantic now, am I?"

"You tell me. You wrote the book."

She dismissed him with a handwave, jumping her gaze to the little pink book that still rested on his bookshelf. I bet he even thinks the lock of hair inside is mine, she thought with a certainty that brought nothing but distaste.

"Pssh."

He looked away with a tickled grin.

"Volumes, I bet," he added under his breath.

She couldn't help the dominant scowl she fixed him with, hackles raised, ready, and laced with a slice of panic—it was a well honed reflex. But he was laughing anyway, feigning a defensive block with his wrists.

I really am damned, aren't I.

He still looked ragged and wore an exhaustion that went beyond tiredness, but she swore she hadn't seen him this at ease and relaxed around her in ages. Months. He settled down again, practically nestling her. When he sleepily asked through the upbeat, jazzy din if she could recite a poem she'd shared with him a few weeks ago that he liked, she resigned herself and obliged.

I really am.

She cited the words from memory, conjuring them as if tracking the path of an old constellation that nearly slipped her memory. His breathing slowed. By the time she'd finished he'd finally fallen asleep. For real. On her. Surreal, like a dream with its feet on the ground. A lucid one, she noted, as she debated her options.

What the hell.

Let him nap for now.

She'd wake him up when the record ended.