old arrangements

The front door fell shut with a firm, solid click. Leaning my back against the timber for a few seconds, I closed my eyes and drew a deep breath. The clammy reek of formalin and damp lecture hall linoleum still clung to my jacket, but inside, I was greeted by the familiar warmth of cedarwood, almonds, and fresh tea.

Dishes clattered softly in the kitchen.

I slipped off my shoes, hung my jacket on the coat rack, and walked down the hallway. The dressing over the bruised patches along my groin served as a quiet reminder of yesterday at every step, yet the dull ache was practically swallowed by the rush that had been racing through my head since the anatomy lecture.

Loona was sitting at the kitchen table. Before her sat a steaming mug, her laptop open. She wore dark grey sweatpants and a soft black long-sleeve, her thick hair cast casually over one shoulder. As I walked in, she angled the display aside, measured me with calm, green eyes, and wordlessly nudged the empty chair opposite her into place.

I sat down. My palms were still prickling with tension.

"She couldn't get a single word out," I said hoarsely.

Loona tilted her head slightly, a thin, lurking smile touching her lips. "Emma?"

"She was sitting there with Sophie and Mara. Sophie was just winding up to say something, about to drop some snide remark about Mitte—and then Emma saw me." Resting my forearms on the table, I leaned forward. "She went completely white. She was shaking, practically snapped at Sophie to shut her mouth, and cowered behind her atlas. She was terrified of me, Loona."

"Not of you," she noted dryly, lifting the mug to her lips and taking a measured sip. "Of what I promised her last night. A clear word at the right moment is usually more than enough."

I stared at her. That casual indifference with which she spoke of Emma's terror caught in my throat.

"You threatened to destroy her license. Because of me."

"Because of me," she corrected, voice cutting, yet stripped of harshness. "Emma tried to dismantle my property to take a swing at me. Anyone who tries that gets discarded. It's that simple."

"It sounded very different in the bathroom last night," I countered. The words slipped out before I could bite them back. "You were completely wrecked. You apologized because you knew you'd gone too far."

A hairline fracture ran through her composure. Her eyes narrowed, her posture locking instantly taut.

*Snap!*

The sharp crack of her fingers cut through the air like a whip.

My entire body answered the conditioned reflex before my brain could even process it: my legs gave out, the chair scraped harshly across the wood, and with a dull thud I found myself kneeling on the tiles—hands flat against my thighs, eyes pinned upward to meet her.

"Don't get insolent with me, John," she said under her breath. Her voice was quiet, but within those green eyes sat that absolute boundary that tolerated no dissent. "I stepped in last night because things derailed. Not so you could sit across from me at noon thinking we're on equal footing."

I swallowed dryly. My breath hitched in uneven intervals, and beneath the loose denim, the fabric inevitably strained. I nodded in silence.

Loona exhaled slowly, leaning back an inch and sliding the laptop a fraction closer to herself. Her index finger tapped idly against the trackpad.

"Timo will be here in two hours," she said briskly. "We need to set the terms for the weekend."

"Loona, please," I started, throat constricted as I looked up at her. "It's still throbbing. If he roughhouses or we sit on the couch gaming for hours… leave it off while he's awake. Or at least: only during the day. And the second Timo crashes tonight, you take it off. Just for the night."

An amused, mocking chuckle rose from her throat. She didn't look down at me; her eyes remained fixed on the screen.

"Only during the day? Off at night?" she echoed smugly. Her eyes scanned an open document, and I recognized the layout immediately: the text file I had sent her back then on her direct orders. "Do you remember point four on your list, John? *'Complete surrender of control in everyday life, especially in situations where you have to act entirely normal.'* Or point seven: *'The feeling of being completely exposed while others are in the room.'*"

Blood surged into my cheeks with blistering heat. I dropped my gaze to her white sneakers, entirely unable to withstand this betrayal of my own desires.

"You handed me that document yourself," she continued, her voice dropping into a low, throaty purr. Shoving the laptop aside, she leaned forward, resting her forearms on her knees. "You told me what you wanted. You wanted to know what it felt like to let go of the reins entirely. And now that we are at this exact juncture—at a real test, right in the middle of real life—you want to start haggling like you're at a flea market?"

"It hurts, Loona," I forced out. "That's all."

"And that is precisely what I'm taking care of," she said firmly. "I don't break my word. I picked up medical-grade silicone this morning. We are padding the largest ring completely so nothing chafes against the bruises. You get the wide cylinder with maximum clearance. You'll barely feel it's there. But the lock stays on until Timo is on that train Sunday evening."

I cautiously lifted my eyes. "And if I make it through two days? If I do everything you ask?"

A faint trace of satisfaction curled her lips. She tilted her head, measuring me like a calculated investment.

"If you play the perfect mate, make no mistakes, and give Timo zero reason to suspect anything… then you sleep in my bed both nights. Just like yesterday. You feel my skin, I hold you, and on Sunday evening I take the metal off the second the door shuts."

My heart skipped a beat. The mere prospect of that proximity made my knees feel hollow against the hard tiles. It was the exact same perverse mechanic as day one: offering the fulfillment of my deepest longings, while demanding my unconditional surrender in return.

"And if it pinches?" I pressed for one final concession. "If the silicone shifts?"

Loona leaned in so close her breath drifted warm across my lips. Her fingers slid under my chin, lifting my head and forcing me to lock eyes with her sharp, emerald stare.

"Then you casually announce that you need to grab ice cubes from the freezer. You step into the bathroom, I unlock it, fix the alignment, and lock it back up. Deal, John? Or would you rather betray your own list and prove to me that you're just a coward after all?"

I drew a shaky breath. The trap had closed with absolute perfection, and I was walking straight into it.

"Deal," I whispered.

"Good boy." She patted my cheek twice with light fingertips and rose to her feet. "Into the bedroom. Your armor is waiting."