PERCY.
I watched Gemini talk animatedly as I drove us to dinner. His hands moved expressively, recounting some ridiculous exchange with a golf course member—a retired CEO, apparently furious that the pro shop was out of a specific shade of neon green golf glove. The amused light in his voice made it impossible not to listen, to get pulled into his narrative. His profile was relaxed, almost effortless, and that sight—his easy confidence, the way his eyes lit up with a story—was grounding somehow, like a tether I didn't realize I needed.
I had apologized. I'd offered a sincere apology, and he'd accepted it, claiming he was merely "startled," not upset. That should have been enough. The air should have cleared. Should have. But it hadn't. Not really. If anything, things had gotten worse.
Something is seriously wrong.
Since the fever broke, I have become painfully aware of the empty space next to me when Gemini isn't there. It's like an ache I can't ignore. I find myself lingering in the kitchen, just sitting there until he wakes up, delaying my schedule, just to watch him make his surprisingly competent breakfast. And that's not all. The most damning thing—no, the thing I can't escape—is how desperately I seek out physical contact with him.
I know what I'm doing. I do. And I hate it. This isn't how I imagined it—how I wanted it to be. He was supposed to help me sleep better. That was the plan. But now? Now I'm questioning everything. Why am I changing things? I've fought so hard to keep my distance, to maintain a professional, controlled space. I've tried to go back to that—back to the comfortable, low-contact silence of two friends sharing a space, respecting each other's boundaries. That's what I told myself. That's what I needed.
But I can't. I can't. I'm restless when he's not around. And when we're together, I find myself wanting to reach out, to touch him—just a brush, a hand on his arm, a casual, almost subconscious gesture that feels unnervingly natural now.
Tonight, even after apologizing, the urge was almost overwhelming. I had to focus intensely on the road—clenching the steering wheel tightly—to stop myself from resting my hand on his leg or shoulder. Just a casual touch. A gesture that feels compulsive, like a need I can't suppress.
Am I still sick? I wonder briefly, running a quick mental check. My temperature's normal. My body feels strong. The physical illness has passed. This new affliction—this internal ache—was entirely psychological. It's all in my head. My mind.
I have always valued distance and control. That's how I managed the chaos of the family name, the business, the endless social demands. Control was my shield. Gemini, though—he was safe because he was quiet, contained, and required only simple acts of care—food, a roof over his head, the necessary things. He never asked for more. Never demanded emotional transparency from me. That was safe.
But then he shared my space. Then I held him while I slept. Then I fell sick—weak, feverish, entirely dependent on his care. And in that vulnerable state, I was exposed. The walls I'd carefully built, brick by brick, crumbled. All my life, I thought I was above such things—friendships, intimacy, emotional closeness. I convinced myself I was above it all. But now? Now he's become a source of warmth I didn't know I'd crave so desperately.
It's all so confusing.
Realizing I've been lost in my thoughts, I clear my throat, the low, almost a warning to myself. Control yourself, Percy.
"My assistant picked up the dry cleaning," I say suddenly, forcing the conversation into a mundane direction. "I think your grey sweater was in there."
He turns to me with that easy, trusting smile—the kind that's so genuine, so unguarded, it bypasses any defenses I have.
"Oh, thanks. I totally forgot about that," he replies, his voice warm, like the sun breaking through cloudy skies.
That smile. That trusting, effortless acceptance. It's a direct bypass of my usual defenses, and I find myself leaning slightly toward him, pulled in by his proximity. The truth is—I've become more attached to Gemini since we've started spending time together. And that attachment? It's shifting, growing less about friendship and more about a visceral, inconvenient need for his presence.
Why is this happening?
I don't have an answer. All I know is that the idea of sleeping alone tonight—without the familiar weight of him in the bed—suddenly feels cold and unacceptable. And that realization—that gnawing, undeniable truth—might be the most unsettling thing of all. I'm losing control over my own needs. And he's the reason why.