CHAPTER 4| Above the Floor
She's avoiding me.
It's been two days since the incident in the garden—two days since she spat chocolate into my bare palm and looked at me like I was something incomprehensible—and she's changed her entire routine to make sure we don't cross paths.
I know this because I've been watching.
She no longer takes her usual route from the library to her morning classes. Instead, she cuts through the service corridors behind the dining hall, adding fifteen minutes to her commute but ensuring she doesn't pass anywhere I might be.
She's abandoned her favorite bench in the literature garden entirely. Now she eats lunch in the library's basement level, where the old archives are kept and almost no one goes.
She even changed her library shift hours, swapping with another student so she works the early morning slot instead of the afternoon. She probably thinks I sleep until noon like most of the other legacy students.
She doesn't know I haven't slept more than four hours a night since I was sixteen.
She doesn't know I've tracked every movement she's made since the moment I decided she was interesting.
And she definitely doesn't know that her avoidance is exactly what I expected. Exactly what I planned for.
Because avoiding me means thinking about me. Thinking about where I might be, when I might appear, how to make sure our paths don't cross. Thinking about me constantly.
I'm living in her head rent-free, and she doesn't even realize it.
But now it's time to escalate.
The graffiti was cleaned off the scholarship housing wall yesterday morning.
Campus security launched an investigation that will go nowhere because the cameras in that area mysteriously malfunctioned during the relevant time window.
The students who were paid to avoid her have stopped—the money was only for one day, just enough to isolate her perfectly before I made my move.
Everything has returned to normal for her.
Which means she's starting to relax.
Which means it's time to shatter that relaxation entirely.
I'm in the library's rare books section on the fourth floor, ostensibly researching a paper for my European History seminar. In reality, I'm watching the security camera feeds on my phone, tracking her movements through the building.
She's on the second floor, reshelving returns in the literature section. Her shift ends in twenty minutes. After that, she has a three-hour gap before her next class, which she'll probably spend in one of the study rooms doing homework.
The study rooms are perfect. Soundproof. Private. Lockable from the inside.
I've already identified which one she'll choose—Room 4B, the one furthest from the main desk, the one with only one entrance, the one that makes her feel safe because she can see anyone approaching before they see her.
She doesn't know that Room 4B has a second key.
She doesn't know I've had that key for the last week.
She doesn't know that in approximately ten minutes, I'm going to lock her in there with me and teach her a lesson about what happens when you try to avoid the inevitable.
I close the book I haven't been reading and make my way downstairs. The library is quiet at this hour—just a few scattered students, none of them paying attention to anything but their own work. Perfect.
I position myself near the study room hallway, far enough that she won't see me when she rounds the corner, close enough that I can intercept her before she reaches the room.
Eight minutes pass.
Then I hear it—the soft sound of footsteps on carpet. Measured. Careful. Hers.
I wait until she's committed to the hallway, until there's no turning back without obviously fleeing, and then I step into view.
She freezes mid-step.
Her eyes widen. Her hands tighten on the books she's carrying. Her whole body goes rigid with that familiar fight-or-flight response I'm starting to recognize as her default state.
But she doesn't run.
Good girl.
I smile at her—that pleasant, empty smile that makes people uncomfortable without being able to articulate why—and gesture toward the study rooms like I'm being polite. Like I'm just another student making way for someone else.
She doesn't move.
We stand there for a long moment, locked in a silent stalemate. She's calculating her options. Run back the way she came and look like she's fleeing from me. Push past me and risk physical contact. Stay frozen and let me control the situation.
I can see the exact moment she makes her choice.
She straightens her spine, lifts her chin slightly, and walks forward with deliberate confidence. She's going to push past me. She's going to assert her right to this space and dare me to stop her.
Fascinating.
I step aside at the last possible second, giving her just enough room that she doesn't have to touch me but not enough that she's comfortable. She passes within inches of me, her shoulder nearly brushing my chest, her breath held.
Then she's past me, heading toward Room 4B with her head high and her stride purposeful.
I count to five.
Then I follow.
She's already inside when I reach the door. I can see her through the small window—setting her books on the table, pulling out her laptop, settling into the chair with her back to the wall like always.
I pull out my key.
The lock turns with a heavy metallic click that echoes in the small space.
She spins around, her eyes going wide as she sees me closing the door behind me. Locking it. Pocketing the key.
Her hands move immediately, signing sharp and fast: Get out. Now. This is a private study room.
Yup, I can understand sign language now. I learnt cause not understanding the way she interacts with this world is simply unacceptable and I had a lot of time to learn it. It's easy just took me 2 days I don't know. But she doesn't know it. She might think I don't understand what she is signing.
I ignore the signing entirely. Instead, I lean back against the door and study her the way I'd study an equation I'm about to solve.
She's wearing another shapeless dress—this one a faded blue that probably used to be pretty but has been washed too many times.
Cardigan over it, even though the library keeps the temperature at a comfortable seventy-two degrees.
Hair in that same messy ponytail. No makeup.
No jewelry. Every single choice designed to make her disappear.
But she can't disappear from me.
Not anymore.
She's backing away from the table now, putting distance between us, her eyes darting toward the door like she's measuring the possibility of getting past me. But we both know she can't. I'm bigger, faster, and blocking the only exit.
Her back hits the bookshelf that lines the far wall. She presses against it, her whole body taut with tension, her hands curled into fists at her sides.
And I just stand there. Watching. Waiting.
The silence stretches between us like a physical thing.
She can't hear it—can't hear the absence of sound that would normally fill this space with tension.
But she can feel it. I can see it in the way her breathing gets faster, shallower.
In the way her eyes keep flicking between my face and my hands.
In the way she's calculating every possible move and finding no good options.
Finally, I push off from the door and start walking toward her.
Slow steps. Deliberate. Giving her time to react, to understand what's happening, to feel the weight of inevitability settling over her like a shroud.
She presses harder against the bookshelf, her eyes fierce but terrified.
When I'm close enough that I could reach out and touch her—not that I will, not yet—I stop.
And then I point.
Down. At the floor.
Her eyes follow my gesture, then snap back up to my face. I can see her mind working, trying to understand what I'm asking for. But she knows. Of course she knows.
I want her to kneel.
She shakes her head violently. No. Absolutely not.
I don't react. I just keep pointing at the floor, my expression patient and calm and completely immovable.
She signs at me, fast and furious: I will not. You're insane. Let me out.
I ignore every sign. I don't acknowledge her protests at all. I just keep my hand extended, pointing downward, making it clear that this is the only acceptable outcome.
The pressure builds in the small room. It's psychological pressure, the kind that comes from someone with absolute confidence in their own authority facing someone who's used to powerlessness. She's strong—so much stronger than most people would be in this situation. But strength has limits.
And I have infinite patience.
One minute passes. Then two.
Her breathing is getting ragged now. Her hands are shaking. Her eyes are starting to water—not with tears, but with the strain of fighting her own body's response to prolonged stress.
I can see her knees starting to tremble.
She's going to break.
The moment I see her legs beginning to buckle, I move.
I drop to my own knees in one smooth, fluid motion, positioning myself directly in front of her, close enough that when she falls—because she is falling, her knees are giving out, her body is done fighting—she won't hit the ground.
She'll hit me.
Her knees land on my thighs with a soft thump. The thick muscle cushions the impact, providing a firm but yielding surface that keeps her completely off the dirty floor.
She gasps. I feel it more than hear it—the sharp intake of breath, the full-body flinch as she realizes what just happened.
I didn't grab her. Didn't force her down. Didn't touch her at all. Because I know even a slight brush of a man's touch will get her body and mind into somewhere darker. Panic and many more medical conditions which are trauma related for rape victims.
I just made myself the ground beneath her.
Her knees are resting on my thighs. Her hands are braced on her own legs to keep from falling forward.
Her face is maybe two feet from mine, close enough that I can see the flecks of darker gray in her light blue eyes, close enough that I can see every microexpression of fear and confusion and reluctant understanding.
I let the silence sit for a moment. Let her absorb what just happened. Let her understand the implications.
Then I speak, keeping my lips clear and slow and precisely shaped so she can read every single word:
"You will kneel for me, Butterfly."
Her eyes widen.
I lean forward slightly, close enough that she has to feel my breath on her face.
"But you will never touch the dirty floor."
Her whole body is trembling now. I can feel it through the contact points where her knees press against my thighs.
"You kneel on me."
I watch comprehension flood her features. The realization of what I've just done. What I've just claimed.
I haven't forced her into submission. I've offered myself as the only acceptable alternative to the degradation she was desperately trying to avoid. I've positioned myself not as her tormentor, but as her protection from something worse.
The floor is dirty. The floor is beneath her. The floor is where broken things belong.
But I'm not dirty. I'm not beneath her. I'm not where broken things go.
I'm where divine things rest.
She's staring at me like I'm something incomprehensible. Something that doesn't fit into any category her mind has for understanding threats. Because I'm not threatening her anymore. I'm protecting her from the humiliation I was about to force on her.
I'm both the danger and the safety.
And her brain can't process that contradiction.
"Do you understand, mon papillon?" My butterfly.
She doesn't nod. Doesn't shake her head. Just stares at me with those wide, terrified, beautiful eyes that are finally—finally—seeing me as something other than a threat to run from.
She's seeing me as something much more complicated.
Something that might hurt her. Or save her. Or both simultaneously.
I reach up slowly, telegraphing the movement so she can pull away if she wants. My hand moves toward her face. She flinches but doesn't retreat—trapped between her fear of my touch and her body's exhaustion from fighting.
My fingers brush her cheek so gently it's barely contact at all. Just enough to feel her skin. Just enough to make a point.
"You have been trying so hard to avoid me," I say, my lips forming each word with exaggerated care. "Running away. Changing your routine. Hiding in basements and archives. All that effort, ma belle." My beautiful one.
Her breathing is shallow and fast. Panic breathing. But she's not pulling away.
"But you cannot hide from something that is already inside your head."
I let my hand fall away from her face and rest it on my own thigh, close enough to her knee that she can feel the proximity but not touching.
"I am in your thoughts when you wake up. I am in your decisions about which path to walk. I am in your dreams at night when you think you are safe."
She's still trembling, but something in her expression is shifting. From terror to something else. Something that might be understanding. Or resignation.
Or the first crack in her carefully constructed armor.
"So we can do this the hard way," I continue, "where you run and I chase and we both waste time on a foregone conclusion."
I lean forward slightly, close enough that our faces are almost touching.
"Or you can accept that you already belong to me, and I can show you how much better it is to stop fighting."
Her lips part slightly. Her eyes search mine, looking for something—humanity, maybe, or sanity, or any indication that I'm bluffing.
She won't find any of those things.
Because I'm not human in the way she needs me to be. I'm not sane by anyone's definition. And I never, ever bluff.
I stand up in one smooth motion, dislodging her knees from my thighs. She nearly topples forward but catches herself, her hands hitting the floor to break her fall.
She's on her hands and knees now, and for a moment she looks like she might stay there. Like the exhaustion of fighting has finally broken through her defenses entirely.
But then she pushes herself up to standing, her legs shaky but functional, her eyes blazing with something that looks like defiance mixed with tears she's too stubborn to shed.
I walk to the door, unlock it with the key from my pocket, and open it wide.
"You are free to leave, Butterfly."
She doesn't move immediately. Just stands there, breathing hard, staring at me like she's trying to solve an impossible equation.
Then she grabs her books off the table and walks toward the door on unsteady legs.
She passes within inches of me again. This time I don't step aside. This time I make her choose whether to brush against me or ask me to move.
She chooses to brush against me.
Her shoulder makes contact with my chest for maybe half a second. Barely any pressure. Just enough that we both know it happened.
Just enough that we both know she chose it instead of the alternative.
She's in the hallway now, several feet away, putting distance between us as quickly as her shaking legs will allow.
But before she disappears around the corner, she stops.
Turns back.
Looks at me with those gray-blue eyes that have seen too much too young.
And signs one thing, sharp and clear and absolutely furious:
You don't own me.
Then she's gone.
I stand in the doorway of Room 4B, watching the empty hallway where she disappeared, and smile.
Not the practiced smile. Not the empty one.
A real smile.
Because she's absolutely right.
I don't own her.
Not yet.
But I will.
Because every interaction we have, every boundary I push, every moment she survives my presence—it's all data. All information. All pieces of the puzzle I'm assembling.
She thinks she's fighting me.
What she doesn't understand is that fighting me is how I learn her patterns.
How I map her reflexes.
How I identify exactly which buttons to push to get exactly the response I want.
She knelt for me today. Not because I forced her. Because I gave her an option that was marginally less degrading than the alternative I manufactured.
That's how you reprogram someone. Not through force. Through the illusion of choice.
Give them two options, both of which serve your purposes, and let them pick the one that makes them feel like they still have agency.
She chose to rest her knees on my body instead of the floor.
She chose to brush against me instead of asking me to move.
She thinks those were victories. Small assertions of control in a situation designed to strip her of it.
What she doesn't realize is that every "choice" I gave her was actually conditioning. Training her body to associate my presence with relief from worse alternatives. Training her mind to see me not as the threat, but as protection from threats I create.
It's Pavlovian. It's methodical. It's absolutely fucking beautiful when it works.
And it's working.
I lock Room 4B behind me and head back to my apartment. I have work to do. Audio files to review from last night's conditioning session. New scripts to write for tonight. Adjustments to make based on today's interaction.
Because tonight, when she's asleep and vulnerable, I'll whisper into her hearing aids again.
I'll tell her that she's safe.
That I protect her.
That the world is dangerous but I am sanctuary.
And her subconscious will listen. Will learn. Will begin to rewire itself around the fiction I'm carefully constructing.
She'll wake up tomorrow with no memory of my words.
But she'll feel different.
She'll see me in the quad or the library or wherever I choose to appear, and instead of pure fear, there will be something else mixed in.
Confusion. Curiosity. The beginning of a pull she can't name or explain.
And day by day, night by night, interaction by interaction, I'll strengthen that pull until it's not a pull anymore.
Until it's gravity.
Until being away from me feels wrong in a way she can't articulate, and being near me feels like the only thing that makes sense.
That's not love. Love requires the capacity for genuine emotion, and I don't have that.
But obsession? Dependency? The complete rewiring of someone's threat response until they can't function without you?
That I can do.
And I'm going to do it so thoroughly, so completely, that she'll never even realize it happened until she's too deep to claw her way back out.
Sleep well tonight, mon papillon.
Tomorrow, I'll be there when you wake.
And eventually, you'll stop wanting me not to be.