"I—That's just—it's an involuntary physiological response to stress and adrenaline," I stammered, wishing the floor would open and swallow me whole. "A normal response to heightened cortisol."
"Sure it is, doc," he replied with a wink, shifting weight to create absolutely torturous friction. "I have that effect on people. It's a gift, really."
He released my wrists and sat back, still straddling me, looking entirely too pleased. He ran a hand through blood-matted hair in a gesture somehow both casual and devastatingly attractive. A drop of blood from his broken nose landed on my chest, and I shivered.
"C'mon, let's go," he said, bouncing to his feet and extending a hand.
I stared incredulously. "Go?"
His eyebrows shot up. "Oh, didn't I mention? There are guys with guns coming to kill you. We need to get you somewhere safe beforethey put a bullet in that beautiful brain of yours. Which would be a terrible waste, by the way."
The combination of playful demeanor and deadly serious content left me speechless. Nothing in my training had prepared me for this specific scenario.
I scrambled backward, away from his hand. "I'm not going anywhere with you."
"We really don't have time for this." His body uncoiled downward, fingers digging into my waist before he hoisted me over his shoulder effortlessly.
"What the—PUT ME DOWN!" I pounded against his back.
"Nope," he replied cheerfully, already moving toward the bathroom. "And no time to get dressed, either."
"This is kidnapping!" I protested, struggling against his iron grip. "And I'm half naked!"
"It's rescue with style," he corrected, tightening his hold. "And trust me, I'm really not complaining about the view."
Before I could object further, he pushed open the bathroom door with his foot, me still hanging upside down over his shoulder in nothing but pajama bottoms.
Just as we entered the bathroom, the unmistakable sound of my front door being pushed wider reached us. Soft footsteps. Multiple sets. Whoever had entered wasn't announcing themselves.
"They're here," Julian whispered and put me down. He gave me a gentle push toward the window. "Fire escape. Now. Stay close to me."
He yanked the window open with such force I feared the frame might break. Cool morning air drifted in, carrying distant sounds of the city awakening. "You first. I insist. The view will be better for me this way."
I hesitated, one foot on the windowsill, feeling utterly vulnerable half-dressed. I took stock of myself: lean but soft from years of choosing books over barbells, skin pale from too many hours in therapy offices, dark hair still tousled from sleep. Nothing like the obvious strength Julian carried in his frame.
Was I really doing this? Climbing down a fire escape half-naked with a patient I barely knew? A patient covered in blood who'd just broken down my door?
My clinical training warred with instinct. Everything about this screamed danger—the violence, the blood, his manic energy. But something deeper, more primal, whispered that the real danger was behind us, not in front of me. The way Julian kept checking over his shoulder, the genuine fear flickering beneath his bravado...
And beneath it all was an inappropriate thrill at being manhandled by someone who wouldn't treat me like a fragile crystal. Someone who might actually give me what Todd never could.
Julian's playful expression vanished. "For fuck's sake, MOVE!"
The bathroom door handle began to turn.
The decision made itself. I scrambled through the window onto the metal grating, the cold steel biting into my bare feet and sending icy shocks across my naked chest. Julian slithered through behind me, muscles coiling and releasing as he tugged the window almost shut.
We'd made it down half a flight when the bathroom door crashed open above us. Voices growled. Footsteps scrambled. Then came the noise that branded itself into my nightmares: the soft pfft of a silenced gun.
"Faster," Julian breathed, hand gripping my shoulder. "They don't collect their pennies for failed missions."
The cryptic statement sliced through my panic. Pennies? Missions? I'd heard countless patients speak with this same certainty abouttheir internal realities. Delusions sometimes had consistent systems with their own rules and consequences, entirely real to them. Julian's conviction didn't necessarily make his statement true, but it made it true to him.
Except... the gunshots behind us weren't delusions. The blood on Julian wasn't imaginary. Whatever world he inhabited included very real people with very real weapons. So maybe these "pennies" weren't symbolic either. The thought sent a chill down my spine as we raced down the fire escape.
At the bottom, Julian jumped the last few feet, then turned to help me. His hands gripped my waist, lifting me easily and setting me gently on the rough pavement. I winced as bare feet hit cold concrete.
"This way," he said, already moving toward the alley.
