Chapter 7 #2
A brief smile touched his lips. “Your body disagrees.”
Reluctantly, I sat across from him, reaching for one of the pastries. The first bite hit me hard: buttery, flaky, still warm. I hadn’t realized how hungry I was until food was in front of me.
Steam rose from our mugs, creating a hazy barrier between us.
Through it, I studied him. Despite the casual posture, his body remained coiled with potential energy.
His chair was positioned so he could see both the door and window without turning his head.
One hand remained free even as he ate, resting on the table within easy reach of the sidearm.
Even in this mundane activity, he remained a predator aware of his surroundings.
“You’re staring.” He didn’t look up.
“I’m observing.” I kept my tone even. “There’s a difference.”
“Not much of one.” He pushed the dried meat sticks toward me. “Protein. You’ll need it.”
I took a handful, rolling the leathery tubes between my fingers. “This feels wrong.”
“Eating?”
“Sitting here like we’re on some vacation while Oblivion is hunting us.” I set the fruit down. “While people may have died yesterday because of us.”
His eyes lifted to mine, giving nothing. “Because of me, you mean.”
“That’s not what I said.”
“It’s what you thought.” He sipped his coffee, gaze never leaving mine. “But tell me something, Doc. Will running on empty make us more effective? Will skipping meals and proper rest somehow honor the dead?”
“That’s not…”
“Survival isn’t pretty.” He didn’t pause. “It’s not heroic. It’s eating when food is available. Sleeping when you can. Taking the small moments of safety when they appear, because they won’t last.”
The hard truth of his words silenced me.
I looked down at the food between us: this small island of normalcy in a sea of chaos.
The warmth of the cup in my hands, the rich scent of pastry, the quiet of the apartment…
it created an illusion of safety so convincing that for a moment, I almost believed it.
And that was dangerous.
“Five minutes.” I took another bite. “Then we plan.”
“Ten.” He nudged the jam toward me.
I wanted to argue, but the food was working already, clearing the fog from my mind, steadying my hands. Perhaps this was strategy after all, not wasting time, but preparing for what came next.
“Fine. Ten.” I drank again.
I set the cup down. “We need to make therapy our priority, even now. Especially now. Your conditioning is breaking down, and we need to use that momentum.”
Specter’s expression hardened. “Not a good idea.”
“The timing is perfect…”
“The timing is that I’m the only thing standing between you and Oblivion right now.” His voice went flat. “What happens if I blank out during an exercise? What happens if I seize while we’re moving locations or evading a tail? You think you can drag my unconscious body to safety?”
I leaned forward, the clinician in me surfacing. “That’s precisely why we need to work on this now. The seizures are coming because your mind is trying to integrate fractured memories. With proper guidance, we can accelerate recovery without triggering neurological events.”
“You can’t know that.”
“I can’t guarantee it, but I’ve worked with similar cases. Not identical, nothing is identical to what Oblivion did to you, but comparable trauma responses, memory suppression, identity fractures.”
Specter sat across from me, his breakfast forgotten. I could read the conflict in him. He wanted to believe me. He wanted to be whole again. But trust didn’t come easily to a man conditioned to view everyone as either a target or a threat.
Specter looked up, a quick flash of surprise, gone. “With Oblivion hunting us?”
“Especially with Oblivion hunting us. They’re desperate to get you back because your conditioning is breaking down. The more we can recover of your true memories, the better advantage we’ll have against them.”
He set down his coffee cup with deliberate care. “And if I blank out again? If I have another episode?” His voice lowered. “Or worse, if something in my programming activates and I hurt you?”
The concern in his voice seemed genuine, which only complicated things further.
“That’s a risk we have to take. Look, I’ve been thinking about exercises that might help accelerate memory recovery without triggering events.”
“You’ve been ‘thinking about exercises.’” He gave me a look, a skeptical edge to his voice. “When, exactly? Between the explosion, the firefight, and our midnight escape?”
“I multitask well under pressure.”
That earned me a ghost of a smile.
“There are grounding methods.” My tone became clinical. “Ways to tether you in the present while we carefully probe the past. Your mind isn’t completely erased; it’s compartmentalized. The spells happen when those compartments start to bleed together too quickly.”
Specter sat very still across from me, face set, but something softer around the edges.
“What kind of techniques?”
I reached across the table. “Give me your hand.”
He hesitated, then slowly extended his right hand. I took it between both of mine, turning it palm up.
“This is a simple grounding exercise.” I pressed my thumb lightly into the center of his palm. “Focus on this point of contact. The pressure, the temperature of my skin against yours.”
His pulse jumped under my fingers, but he kept his grip still.
“Physical sensation anchors you to the present. When we start exploring memories, this gives your mind something concrete to return to.”
“And you think this will prevent the episodes?” His mouth tightened, skepticism clear.
“I think it will give your mind a lifeline. Something to hold onto when the memories become overwhelming.”
His gaze never left my face as I demonstrated, tracing small circles on his palm. The simple touch felt unexpectedly intimate in the quiet apartment.
“There are other techniques.” I kept my voice even. “Rhythmic breathing, sensory focus…”
“Do they all involve you touching me?” He cut me off with a look.
Heat crawled up my neck. “No. But physical tethering is often the most effective.”
Specter studied me with a steady look, then abruptly turned his hand to capture mine and pulled me to my feet. “Before we begin, I need to test something.”
He stood before I could step back, drawing me in. The sudden movement brought us chest to chest, the small table no longer a barrier between us. His free hand moved to my face, fingers gliding from temple to jaw in an unhurried line.
“What are you doing?” My voice sounded foreign to my own ears, thin and uncertain.
“Testing a theory.” His thumb brushed across my lower lip. “About anchoring.”
I should have stepped back. Should have reminded him of professional boundaries, of the risks involved, of everything that made this a terrible idea. Instead, I stood still as his fingers curled around the nape of my neck.
“Specter…”
“That’s not who I am,” he said, his voice soft. “Not all of me.”
Then his mouth was on mine, and my thoughts scattered.
The kiss started slow, a question, not a demand. His lips brushed mine with care, as though I might shatter under too much pressure. Nothing like our previous encounter. Nothing like the calculated provocations he’d used before.
This was real. Unplanned. Dangerous in ways that had nothing to do with Oblivion.
Against every professional instinct, I responded.
My hands found their way to his chest, feeling the steady beat beneath my palms. The kiss deepened, transforming from question to statement.
His arm circled my waist, pulling me closer until there was nothing between us but clothing and the last threads of my professional resolve.
The warning bells in my mind grew fainter with each passing second. This man, this dangerous, broken, fascinating man, was dismantling my defenses with nothing more than his mouth on mine. And I was letting him.
When we finally broke apart, I remained close enough to feel his breath against my lips. Reality crashed back, along with the memory of what had happened the last time we’d kissed: his seizure, the medical team rushing in, the violent convulsions.
“How do you feel?” I asked, searching his face for any sign of distress. “Any dizziness? Disorientation?”
I waited on alert, monitoring him for the slightest sign of distress.
My fingers moved to his wrist, counting his pulse, steady, strong, perhaps a bit fast. His pupils weren’t dilated in that alarming way they’d been before the seizure.
No tremors in his hands, no tension in his jaw beyond what our proximity created.
“You should sit. Let me check…”
“I don’t need checking.” His hand came up to my face, thumb skimming the curve of my cheekbone. “I have my answer…”
I paused, expecting him to wait for any symptoms to surface, mentally preparing my clinical response. Instead, he kissed me again.