Page 34 of Rhythm and Rapture

"Fascinating," she breathes, "Heart rate elevation from 72 to 85 beats per minute from proximity alone. No physical contact required."

She nods the affirmative to my previous question and when I finally make contact, placing my hand on her arm just above where the lab coat sleeve ends, her skin is warm. Softer than I expected. Real in a way that makes every interaction we've had through screens feel like shadows.

Her sharp intake of breath is barely audible, but I catch it. More telling is the way her whole body goes still, like she'scataloging every sensation, filing it away for analysis even as she experiences it for the first time.

The tablet in her other hand immediately shows the spike in her heart rate. The numbers don't lie, even if she's trying to.

"Ninety-four beats per minute," she reports, her voice maintaining that scientific detachment even as her body betrays her reaction. A flush is starting to creep up her neck, pink against pale skin. "Skin conductance increasing to 3.1 microsiemens."

I move my hand up her arm with deliberate slowness, feeling the tiny tremor that runs through her. My thumb traces a small circle on her inner elbow, finding the sensitive skin there, and her breathing hitches. She's trying so hard to stay clinical, to observe rather than feel, but her body has other plans.

"Your pupils are dilating," I observe, playing her game. Two can analyze reactions. "Classic sympathetic nervous system response. Fight or flight, though you seem to be choosing neither."

"Freeze response is also common," she manages, but there's breathlessness in her reply that has nothing to do with academic interest. "The dorsal vagal nerve can trigger immobilization when faced with overwhelming stimuli."

"Am I overwhelming you, Doctor?" I say clearly for the camera, but then I turn my head away from the lens, letting my lips form her real name silently—a secret between us that the audience will never hear.

Her name feels like intimacy on my tongue. Not the Hidden Chemist, not the performer or the professor, but the woman underneath all the careful constructions.

"The data suggests elevated arousal responses across all measured parameters," she says, but her voice cracks slightly on 'arousal.'

I slide my hand from her arm to the back of her neck, my fingers finding the sensitive spot just below her hairline where baby-fine hair meets warm skin. The touch is still light, still careful, but more possessive. Claiming without constraining.

She actually shudders—a full-body response that she can't hide behind clinical terminology or scientific detachment. The tablet nearly slips from her hand, and I hear Ash make a soft sound of appreciation from somewhere to our right.

"Heart rate: one hundred and six," she reports, though her voice is noticeably less steady now. The professor is starting to crack, revealing the woman underneath. "Breathing pattern has become... irregular."

"Good," I murmur, leaning closer without increasing the pressure of my touch. "Your body knows what it wants even if your mind is still trying to categorize it."

She meets my eyes through the masks, and I can see the exact moment her academic armor starts to fracture. There's fear there, yes, but also wonder. Like she's discovering something that all her textbooks couldn't quite prepare her for.

"How are you feeling?" I ask, my voice low enough that the microphones might strain to pick it up. This question isn't for the audience or the content. This is just for her.

"Scientifically fascinated," she says automatically, then stops, seeming to really consider the question. "And... unmoored. Like I'm observing my own responses from a distance while simultaneously being consumed by them."

"That's dissociation," Felix comments quietly from his position. "Common response to overwhelming new experiences."

"Thank you, Assistant Silicon,” she says with a flash of her usual humor, and I'm glad to see it. She's still in there, still herself even as she navigates this uncharted territory.

I lean closer, close enough that she can probably feel the heat radiating from my body. My thumb traces the junction where her neck meets her shoulder, finding another spot that makes her breath catch.

"You're doing beautifully," I murmur, and then—inspired by her earlier vulnerability about our music—I start singing softly. Just a few lines from "Theory and Practice," the song she quoted on stream. About being afraid to fall apart, about knowing all the calculations but still taking the leap.

The melody is something familiar to ground her while everything else is uncharted territory. A reminder that she's not alone in feeling overwhelmed by the gap between knowledge and experience.

Her eyes soften behind the mask, and I see some of the tension leave her shoulders. The monitors probably show her heart rate stabilizing slightly—not decreasing, but finding a sustainable rhythm rather than the panicked flutter of before.

“The subject appears to be responding positively to both physical and auditory stimuli," she manages, though her clinical facade is cracking with each word. Her free hand comes up to rest against my chest—not pushing away, just making contact. Anchoring herself. "The combination of familiar music with new sensory input creates a... compelling paradox."

I cover her hand with mine, letting her feel my own elevated heartbeat. "I'm not exactly unaffected either, if that helps your data collection."

"Mutual arousal patterns," she breathes. "That wasn't... I didn't account for that variable."

"The best experiments always have surprises," I say, but I can feel the intensity building to a level that might be too much for her first experience. Time to give her space to process.

I step back slightly, letting my hand trail down her arm as I move away. The loss of contact makes her sway slightly, like she was using me for balance in more ways than one.

"What's next in your experiment?" I ask, giving her the opportunity to regain her scientific footing.

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