He released me suddenly and scrambled back. "Fuck! Vince, I couldhave—"
"But you didn't," I interrupted gently. "You stopped yourself."
"I shouldn't have… You shouldn't have to—" He shook his head, panting.
I moved toward him slowly, telegraphing every movement. "I'm the one who should apologize. That was careless of me."
"Don't," he said sharply. "Don't apologize for existing in your own space."
But I could see the tremors running through him, the way his chest heaved with too-rapid breaths. The nightmare still clung to him giving him a wild look in his eyes.
"Can I touch you?" I asked, staying just out of reach.
He nodded, his head jerking like a marionette with tangled strings. My hands cupped his face, thumbs tracing his cheekbones. His skin clung cold and clammy against my palms, pulse hammering beneath my fingers like trapped prey seeking escape.
"Bad dream?" I asked softly, though it was obvious.
Another nod. His eyes closed, leaning into my touch like he was starved for it.
"Come back to bed," I suggested. "Let me hold you."
"I don't need—"
"I know you don't need it," I interrupted. "But maybe I need to give it. Please?"
That seemed to break through his automatic defenses. He let me lead him back to the bed, though he sat on the edge rather than lying down, still poised to flee.
I settled beside him and gently pulled him into my arms, arranging us so his back rested against my chest, my arms wrapped around him from behind. The position let me hold him while he could still flee if he needed to. I knew better than to make him feel trapped.
He tensed for a moment before gradually relaxing into the embrace, like his body was learning it was safe to be held.
I breathed deeply, deliberately memorizing his scent in this moment. Not the nightmare sweat or the lingering fear, but the warm, sleepy smell of his skin, the faint trace of soap from his shower earlier, something uniquely Luka underneath it all.
"Fuck," I muttered without thinking, the scent going straight to my cock.
"What?" Luka shifted slightly in my arms.
Heat crawled up my neck. "You smell good. It's... it's making me hard." I paused, recognizing how inappropriate this was. "Which is completely fucked up timing, I know. You just had a nightmare and almost sliced my carotid open, and here I am getting turned on by how you smell."
He went very still in my arms. "You're turned on? Right now?"
"I'm always turned on around you," I admitted. "Even when it's wildly inappropriate. Especially then, apparently. My professional ethics board would have a field day with this. I should probably put that in my notes. 'Patient almost murdered me. Responded by getting aroused. Suggest immediate license revocation and possible psychiatric evaluation. Doctor may have serious pathological attraction to near-death experiences.'"
"Your professional ethics board can fuck off," he said, turning in my arms to face me. "Are you seriously hard right now?"
"Feel for yourself," I challenged, knowing I was playing with fire.
His hand slid down between us, finding my cock through my pajama bottoms. "Jesus, Vince. I almost killed you five minutes ago."
"But you didn't," I said, grinding into his palm. The filter between my brain and mouth had apparently dissolved completely.
Two warring parts of myself battled for control. The rational therapist—the one with ethics training and professional boundaries—screamed warnings about power imbalances, trauma bonding, and inappropriate arousal responses. This was textbook crisis-induced attachment, my clinical brain insisted. This wasn't real; it was just adrenaline and fear creating a false intimacy.
But the part of me that had spent years suppressing during therapy sessions and failed relationships, didn't care about the psychological explanations. That part recognized Luka as the embodiment of everything I'd always secretly craved but never allowed myself to pursue. The danger I'd always orbited from a safe distance was now pressing me against the mattress, and I was tired of fighting my own desires.
"You stopped yourself," I continued, voice rough with want. "You chose not to hurt me even when every instinct was screaming at you to attack. Do you have any idea how hot that is?"
A memory surfaced of Todd's horrified face when I'd begged him to hold me down, to make it hurt just a little. He’d reacted with disgust and a lecture about how unhealthy it was. I'd spent months in my own therapy afterward, trying to "fix" desires that apparently couldn't be fixed.
