Page 14 of Writhe
But I don’t, because I don’t want to break this. Whatever this is.
He’s leaning against the edge of my bed now, close enough that if I stretched my legs just a little further, my foot would brush against his thigh. He keeps his handsin his lap, fingers twisting together nervously. Like he doesn’t know what to do with them.
It’s almost endearing.
I drag my tongue across my lower lip, letting my head tip back against the wall. “You do this often?”
Theo glances at me, slowly and carefully. “Do what?”
“Break into girls’ rooms at night.”
His lips twitch, something wry pulling at the edges. “Only the dangerous ones.”
I huff out a laugh, the sound dry. “Smart move.”
He shrugs. “I don’t think you’ll kill me.”
“What makes you so sure?”
For the first time, his gaze flickers with something almost playful. “You’re hungry. You wouldn’t waste the energy.”
I blink. Then, before I can stop it, I laugh again. A real one this time. A startled thing that scrapes its way up my throat before I can swallow it down.
He looks proud of himself.
Cocky, almost.
I narrow my eyes at him, fighting the curve of my lips. “You’re lucky I don’t have the energy to strangle you.”
Theo grins, but there’s something softer beneath it. Something that makes my stomach twist, and not in the way hunger does.
“I should go,” he murmurs after a beat.
I don’t like how the words feel in my chest. I shift against the floor, watching him as he pushes himself uponto his feet. He moves like he’s always expecting something to knock him down. Like he’s bracing for it.
“Bed checks are soon,” he adds.
I should say “good,” should tell him to get the hell out before he gets caught and drags me into whatever mess he’s tangled in. But instead, what comes out is, “Will I see you again?”
Theo hesitates, just for a second. But then he gives me the smallest, most hesitant nod. “Yeah,” he says. “If you want me to.”
I don’t know why my throat feels so tight. I don’t know why I do want him to. But I don’t question it. Instead, I just watch as he moves toward the door, slipping into the shadows like he was never even here. And for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel alone. Even if I probably should.
The Doctor calls it progressive therapy.
I call it bullshit.
He stands in front of Theo and me, hands clasped behind his back, posture as rigid as the starched white coat he wears like armor. His office smells like disinfectants and the faintest hint of coffee. The walls are lined with books—thick medical texts and psychiatric journals stacked neatly on the shelves, untouched. There’s a single chair in front of his desk, the kind designed to make you uncomfortable. To keep you from getting too relaxed. I’ve sat in it before.
Not today.
Today, I stand with my back straight,my fingers curled into fists at my sides, because sitting would be a concession. And I don’t concede.
Not willingly.
Theo is beside me, shifting from foot to foot, eyes flicking between me and the doctor. He looks pale, but then again, he always does—sickly in a way that makes my stomach twist, though I refuse to acknowledge why.
The Doctor clears his throat, adjusting his glasses as he observes us like we’re specimens under a microscope. “You lack trust, Eliza.”
