Page 109 of Forget-Me-Nots and Apricots

Theo's arms wrapped around me, holding me steady as I regained my equilibrium. Despite the analysis, I could feel his own arousal pressed against me, his body responding despite his controlled exterior.

"May I touch you?" I asked, my hands sliding down his chest toward the waistband of his pants.

Theo hesitated, his analytical mind visibly working through something. "While I would find that extremely pleasurable," he said carefully, "I think we should pause here."

I pulled back slightly, searching his face. "Did I do something wrong?"

"Not at all," he assured me quickly, his hands gentle as they settled on my hips. "Your actions and responses have been optimal in every way." His eyes met mine, unexpectedly tender behind their usual analytical sharpness. "However, we're in a communal kitchen, and the probability of one of the others discovering us increases with each passing minute."

I glanced around, suddenly remembering where we were—standing half-dressed in the kitchen. I bit my lip, debating on what to do before I took a deep breath, “Would you like to come back to my nest?”

Theo's eyes widened slightly, that analytical mind of his clearly processing my invitation. For a moment, I worried I'd overstepped, but then something shifted in his expression—a decision made, a calculation completed.

"Yes," he said, his voice lower than usual. "I would like that very much."

I retrieved my discarded clothing, suddenly shy despite what we'd just shared. Theo adjusted his own clothes, before the two of us made our way back to my room, hoping no one caught us as we did so.

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Chapter Forty-Five

Wereachedmybedroomwithout encountering any of the others, a small mercy given my disheveled state. As I closed the door behind us, a sudden shyness overtook me despite what we'd just shared in the kitchen. Theo stood a few feet away, his usual analytical composure slightly disrupted—shirt partially unbuttoned, hair mussed from my fingers, glasses slightly askew on his nose.

"Your nest is remarkably well-constructed," he observed, his eyes taking in the carefully arranged blankets and pillows that formed my safe space. "The structural integrity suggests considerable attention to detail."

I smiled, oddly touched by his clinical appreciation of something so personal. "Thank you. It's... important to me."

Theo's eyes softened as they returned to me. "I understand. Safe spaces are psychologically essential, particularly for those who have experienced trauma."

I moved closer to him, drawn by the way his analytical mind seemed to wrap around my experiences with such careful understanding. "And having you here doesn't disturb that safety?" I asked softly, curious about his perspective.

Theo considered this, his head tilting slightly in that way of his. "The psychological concept of safety is highly individualized. For some, it requires complete solitude. For others, trusted companions enhance rather than diminish the feeling of security." His eyes met mine, unexpectedly gentle. "Which is true for you?"

I thought about it, about how I felt with him standing here in my most private space. "Both, at different times," I admitted. "Sometimes I need to be alone. But right now..." I reached for his hand, linking our fingers together. "Right now, having you here feels right."

Something softened in Theo's expression—a subtle shift most would miss, but that I was learning to recognize.

"Would you like to join me?" I asked softly, gesturing to the nest.

Theo studied the arrangement with careful eyes, then looked back at me. "I would. Though I should note that I have limited experience with nests. The proper protocol for entry is unclear to me."

His admission, so earnest and precise, made warmth bloom in my chest. "There's no protocol," I assured him, taking his hand. "Just... be gentle with the arrangement. It's constructed specifically for comfort."

Theo nodded, absorbing this information with his usual thoroughness. I led him to the edge of the nest, where he removed his shoes with methodical care before following me into the soft confines of blankets and pillows. His movements were cautious, precise—as if he was afraid of disrupting the careful arrangement I'd created. Once settled, he looked almost out of place among the soft fabrics, his analytical presence a contrast to the cozy disarray.

"Is this configuration acceptable?" he asked, adjusting his position slightly. "I want to ensure I'm not damaging your carefully constructed environment."

I smiled, shifting closer to him. "It's perfect. The nest is meant to be lived in, not just looked at." To demonstrate, I tucked myself against his side, my head finding a comfortable spot on his shoulder. "See? Adaptable."

Theo's arm came around me after a moment's hesitation, his touch gentle as he adjusted to accommodate my presence against him. "Fascinating. The structure maintains integrity despite weight distribution changes." His free hand reached out, fingers exploring the texture of one of the blankets with scientific curiosity. "You've incorporated multiple fabric types and textures," he observed. "Creating a multi-sensory comfort experience."

I smiled against his shoulder, oddly touched by his analytical appreciation of something so instinctive to me. "I never thought of it that way, but yes. Different textures feel good against the skin. Some for warmth, some for softness, some for weight."

"Sensory integration therapy utilizes similar principles," Theo noted, his fingers continuing their exploration of the nest's construction. "The varied tactile stimulation promotes neurological regulation and anxiety reduction."

"Is that your clinical way of saying my nest is cozy?" I teased, tilting my head to look up at him.

The corner of Theo's mouth lifted in that subtle almost-smile. "Precisely." His eyes met mine, analytical yet warm behind his glasses. "Though 'cozy' lacks the specificity I prefer."

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