His head snapped up, eyes wide with surprise, then narrowing defensively. "Don't—"
"I'm not analyzing you," I said quickly. "I'm just stating facts. If someone did that to any other person, you'd call it what it is. He drugged you. He used his position of power over you. You wereeighteen, and he was your mentor." I took a careful step toward him. "What he did wasn't love. It wasn't training. It was abuse."
He stared at me, something shifting behind his eyes—confusion, uncertainty, a flicker of recognition that maybe, just maybe, he wasn't to blame. Then his expression hardened.
"Anyway, it doesn't fucking matter. It was a long time ago." He finally looked directly at me, his expression instantly shuttering. A mask slammed down over the vulnerability, his posture shifting from open to defensive in a heartbeat. His chin lifted, shoulders squared, body bracing for rejection. "Don't look at me like that. Like I'm some fucking victim."
"I'm not—"
"You are," he snapped. The flush that crept up his neck wasn't embarrassment but anger, a physical manifestation of his need to reclaim control of the narrative. He jabbed a finger in my direction. "That's the problem. You're looking at me with those therapist's eyes, seeing all the cracks, all the damage. Like you could ever want someone this fucked up."
"I see someone who survived," I said firmly. "Someone who found a way to reclaim himself when everything was taken from him. That's not broken, Luka. That's incredible strength."
He blinked, clearly not expecting that response. For a moment, his defenses wavered, uncertainty flickering across his face.
"I don't pity you," I continued, choosing each word carefully. "I'm furious at what was done to you, but not because I think it diminished you. Because you deserved better."
He swallowed hard, Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. "You know those broken Japanese plates? The ones they repair with gold instead of trying to hide the cracks?"
I nodded, surprised by the shift.
"That's what these are." He gestured toward his piercings. "After Milan, after he... I felt worthless. Damaged beyond repair. Used goods. So I got these. Each one hurt like a motherfucker, but they were mine. My choice. My pain. I couldn't erase what he did, couldn't pretend I wasn't broken. But I could add something valuable to the broken parts. Make them worth more because they'd been broken, not less."
He held my gaze, a fierce light in his eyes now. "Every time someone sees them, touches them, they're touching something I made beautiful despite him. Despite what he took from me. It's like saying, 'Yes, I'm broken here, but look what I've made of it.'"
He stepped closer, his intensity almost overwhelming. "So when I want you to touch me, when I pull away and hope you'll follow, that's not me playing games. That's me asking if I matter enough for you to chase me. If I'm worth fighting for." His voice dropped to almost a whisper. "After last night…after you held me through that fucking nightmare about Ana, after everything I told you, I woke up needing to know if you still wanted me. And when you just let me go, I had my answer."
My heart ached at the realization. In trying to respect his boundaries, I'd only reinforced his deepest fear that once he showed vulnerability, I'd abandon him at the first sign of withdrawal. A classic trauma response, and I'd walked right into it, reinforcing exactly what Prometheus had programmed into him—that no one would ever truly want him enough to fight for him.
"I do want you," I said quietly. "I've wanted you since that first day in my office. I just didn't understand what you needed from me. I thought I was being respectful by giving you space when you pulled away. I didn't realize you were asking me to prove I wouldn't give up on you."
His eyes widened slightly. "I wasn't testing you."
"Weren't you?" I asked gently, not as a therapist, but as someone who cared deeply. "Luka, it's okay to need reassurance. Especially after what you've been through."
"What if I need it all the time?" he asked, voice barely audible. "What if it's never enough? What if my... neediness... eventually pushes you away, too?"
The question held such raw honesty that for a moment I couldn't speak. This was the real fear. Not just that I wouldn't want him enough to chase him, but that his need for reassurance would eventually exhaust me.
"Then I'll keep showing you," I said simply. "Every day. Until you believe it."
"I don't need you to fix me," he said, but the heat had gone out of his voice. His posture began to open again, the defensive stance gradually easing. "I need you to want me exactly as fucked up as I am."
"I do want you," I said firmly. "All of you. Not as a patient. Not as someone to fix. Just you, Luka."
I moved close enough that our chests nearly touched, close enough to feel the heat from his skin. For a heartbeat, I hesitated, remembering how badly I'd misinterpreted his signals this morning. Then I deliberately reached out, placing my palm against his cheek. The slight stubble rasped against my palm, his skin hot beneath my touch.
"I'm going to mess up again," I said quietly. "I'll probably get it wrong sometimes. But I'm not going anywhere, Luka. Not unless you tell me to."
His eyes closed briefly. When he opened them again, the blue was electric, pupils dilated. His pulse jumped visibly at his throat, a rapid flutter beneath the skin.
"Speaking of impossible challenges," I said, trying to lighten the mood, "any chance you could teach me that card trick? That was seriously impressive."
His laugh was genuine, the darkness momentarily banished. The tension in his shoulders released in a visible wave, like watching ice melt in the sun. "Maybe after we survive tomorrow. It took me years to perfect."
"It's a date," I said, the word hanging between us with new significance.
Luka's smile widened. He handed me the gun again, his fingers lingering against mine. "Let's get back to work. A few more magazines, then we should meet up with Lo to finalize plans for tomorrow."
