Noah’s fingers became still.
“You lost control over your body in a profound way. You were unconscious. Sedated. Restrained for your safety. Examined and moved by strangers. Your conscious mind understands that Reid is safe. Your nervous system may still interpret vulnerability as danger.”
His gaze dropped to the carpet.
“That sounds dramatic.”
“What happened to you was dramatic.”
His mouth tightened.
Dr. Whitcomb softened her tone.
“A trauma response is not an accusation. Your body is not saying Reid intends harm. It is trying to protect you with information learned during the worst weeks of your life.”
“How do I teach it something else?”
“Gradually.”
“I hate that word.”
“I know.”
She turned the notebook around and drew three horizontal lines.
“Instead of dividing intimacy into sex and no sex, think of it as information.”
Noah eyed the page. “What kind?”
“What touch feels good today? What feels neutral? What produces tension?”
Beside the lines, she wrote three words.
GREEN.
AMBER.
RED.
“Green means continue,” she said. “Amber means pause, check, or change something. Red means stop.”
“This sounds like harbor traffic control.”
“Your mind responds well to systems.”
“It used to.”
“It still does.”
He looked at the page and found no argument.
“Begin with contact that has no required destination,” she continued. “Ten minutes of kissing. Touch through clothing. Lying together without movement. Whatever feels manageable.”
“No goal,” I said.
“Exactly. No expectation of arousal. No requirement for anything to end in orgasm. No assumption that because a touch was green yesterday, it remains green today.”
Noah studied the words.
