Elias POV
Noa doesn't scream.
That's how I know I've finally broken something.
She goes quiet in my arms, the kind of stillness that isn't calm but hollow—like a house after a fire has burned through it. Her sobs stop abruptly, breath stuttering once before evening out into something mechanical.
Dissociation.
I recognize it instantly. I taught her how to hide there.
I loosen my grip, careful now. You don't hold someone too tightly when they're already leaving their body. Her eyes are open, unfocused, staring past my shoulder like she's watching something only she can see.
"Noa," I say softly. "Stay with me."
She doesn't respond.
Dr. Keene whispers my name behind us. A warning. A plea. I ignore it.
"Noa," I repeat, lower this time. "Look at me."
Her gaze flickers—then snaps into place.
And when she looks at me again, something is different.
She's not afraid.
She's evaluating.
That scares me more than her panic ever did.
"You rehearsed this," she says quietly.
The room feels colder.
I don't ask what she means. I already know.
"You rehearsed what you'd say when I remembered," she continues. "You didn't hesitate once."
"I told you the truth."
"No," she says. "You told me your version."
She pulls out of my arms with surprising strength, putting distance between us. I let her. She needs the illusion of space right now.
"You always knew how this would end," she says. "You just didn't know when."
I nod once.
"Yes."
She laughs under her breath. It's sharp. Unfamiliar. "So tell me—was there ever a version where you let me go?"
I don't answer.
Because there never was.
"That's what I thought," she whispers.
She turns toward the office, toward the empty desk where her life used to exist in neat little folders. Her fingers trail along the surface like she expects something to still be there.
"You know what the worst part is?" she says. "It's not that you erased my memory."
I stay silent.
"It's that you replaced it," she continues. "Every time I doubted myself, you were there. Every time I panicked, you explained it away. You trained me to rely on you."
I step closer. "You needed stability."
"No," she snaps, turning on me suddenly. "I needed agency."
Her voice cracks on the word.
"You curated my reality," she goes on. "You decided which fears were valid and which ones were symptoms. You made yourself the only safe thing in my world."
"That wasn't manipulation," I say calmly. "That was containment."
Her eyes darken.
"You sound proud."
I consider the question honestly.
"I'm not ashamed."
She flinches like I've struck her.
"Say that again," she whispers.
"I'm not ashamed," I repeat. "I did what I had to do."
She shakes her head slowly, backing away from me like she's finally seeing the shape of what I am.
"You don't love me," she says.
I stop walking.
"That's where you're wrong."
"No," she insists. "You love owning me. You love being the only one who knows the truth. You love deciding what I can handle."
I take a breath. Measure my response.
"You think love is gentle," I say. "It isn't. Love is ruthless. Love chooses survival over purity."
Her hands curl into fists. "You're justifying control."
"Yes," I say. "Because control kept you alive."
She laughs again, louder this time, brittle and close to breaking. "You keep saying that like I'm supposed to thank you."
"I don't need your gratitude," I reply. "I need you alive."
"And what if I don't want this life?" she asks.
The question hits harder than anything else she's said.
I study her face carefully—the tension in her jaw, the tremor she's trying to suppress. She's testing a boundary. Looking for the edge of me.
"If you didn't," I say slowly, "you wouldn't be standing here arguing with me."
Her eyes widen slightly.
"You really believe you know me better than I know myself."
"I do," I say without hesitation.
Silence stretches.
Then she whispers, "Did you ever think I'd be scared of you?"
The question is quiet.
Vulnerable.
And deadly.
I don't lie.
"Yes."
Her throat bobs as she swallows. "When?"
"From the beginning," I admit. "Fear is a stabilizer. It keeps people alert. Compliant."
She stares at me like she might throw up.
"You wanted me afraid?"
"I wanted you cautious," I say. "Afraid enough not to run. Safe enough not to shatter."
She wraps her arms around herself. "You're terrifying."
"I know."
Another silence.
Then she looks up, eyes glassy but sharp.
"So tell me something," she says. "If I go to the police right now and tell them everything—what happens?"
I don't miss a beat.
"They won't believe you."
Her lips part.
"You have no evidence," I continue. "No files. No footage. A documented history of paranoia and memory gaps. And me—a clean record, a respected professional, and your primary caregiver."
Her face drains of color.
"They'll think you're relapsing," I finish. "And I'll be the concerned partner trying to get you help."
Tears spill over.
"You already planned for this," she whispers.
"Yes."
She sinks onto the chair, hands shaking violently now. "So I'm trapped."
I crouch in front of her, lowering myself to her level.
"You're protected," I correct gently.
Her laugh turns into a sob.
"Say it," she demands through tears. "Say the truth."
I look into her eyes.
"You're mine," I say quietly. "And the world will never take you from me."
Her breathing breaks apart.
She covers her mouth, trying to stifle the sound, but it slips through anyway—raw and wounded.
I reach out.
She doesn't pull away.
That's the most dangerous part.
"You still love me," I murmur.
She nods once, helplessly.
"I hate you," she whispers.
"I know."
I brush her hair back from her face, slow and familiar.
"And you're not leaving," I add.
She freezes.
"…How do you know?"
I lean closer, lowering my voice until it's just for her.
"Because if you were going to run," I whisper, "you wouldn't be crying. You'd already be gone."
Her eyes fill with terror.
And recognition.
I straighten.
"Get some rest," I say calmly. "Tomorrow will be harder."
She looks up at me, voice trembling. "Why?"
Because tomorrow, I think, you'll start remembering the parts I couldn't erase.
But I don't say that.
I just turn toward the door.
Behind me, her voice cracks.
"Elias?"
I pause.
"If I never forgave you," she asks quietly, "would you still do this?"
I don't turn around.
"Yes."
Her sob shatters the room.
And for the first time since all of this began, I feel something twist in my chest.
Not guilt.
Not regret.
Fear.
Because I know—
I didn't just erase her past.
I taught her how to be afraid of me.
And once fear turns into clarity…
love becomes dangerous.