Chapter 4 The Needy One Returns

Adrienne

I selected the formula with the same care a surgeon takes during surgery, precise, measured, without sentiment.

Batch 004-G. Single-application vial. Subdermal adherence. Six-hour effect window. The numbers should evoke a response in me. They don’t.

I hold it in my palm for a moment before applying it to the inside of my left wrist. One drop. Not because that’s all it takes, but because that’s all I need. It warms slightly against my skin. Perfect. No fragrance added, no alcohol sheen. No sticky residue. No trace.

He’ll never notice it. That’s the point.

The mirror in my apartment isn’t for vanity. I don’t care how I look in it. I care what he will see.

Soft waves in my hair. Low neckline. Neutral lips. Bare throat. Vulnerability, but engineered. I wear confidence like a scent of its own, clean, heavy, deliberate.

I study myself one last time and smooth a hand over the pulse point on my neck. It’s racing slightly. Not with nerves. With anticipation.

004G thinks tonight is a second date. He thinks he asked me. He didn’t. I led him there, text by text, tone by tone.

He flirted. I mirrored. He leaned in. I retreated. He begged. I smiled.

Now, he’s here.

A knock at the door, two sharp raps, then a pause.

Right on time.

He smiles when I open the door, broad, eager, like he’s already won something. That’s fine. Let him believe it.

“Wow,” he says, eyes sweeping over me too quickly. “You look…”

“Expected?” I offer.

He laughs. Nervous. The scent’s already working.

We sit close on the couch. No dinner table, no distance. I hand him a drink, just strong enough to loosen, not enough to dull. He smells it before tasting. I watch his nostrils flare. His pupils dilate.

That’s the second time.

He leans toward me when I speak. Not in a rude way. Not yet. But he’s tracking my voice like it’s a thread around his neck.

Good.

004G is charming. Confident. The kind of man who thinks eye contact is control. He watches my mouth when I sip my wine. He mirrors the motion before lifting his own glass.

His thigh brushes mine. I don’t move. He takes that as permission.

I tilt my head slightly, studying him like a sculpture. He mistakes it for interest.

“We have good chemistry,” he says, low.

You have a pheromonal override and a weak boundary response.

I smile. “We do.”

I touch his arm when I laugh, just once, feather-light. He turns toward me more fully, like that single point of contact gave him permission to orbit.

By the end of the hour, he’s leaning so far in, I don’t have to say much at all. He’s talking faster now. Less guarded. He shares details he shouldn’t. Mentions an ex who “never got him like this.”

He’s not in love. He’s in proximity.

He doesn’t know the difference yet.

I do.

He laughs too hard at something I say, leans in close, his knee brushing mine again, firmer this time. I let it stay. He’s eager now. Loose. Predictable.

I glance at the nearly empty glass in his hand. One drink. That’s all it took. Not the alcohol. The formula.

004G doesn’t realize his body is reacting faster than his mind can rationalize. Every shift, every lean, every second of proximity, it’s all happening beneath the surface. His pupils haven’t constricted in twenty minutes. He’s sweating at the temples. I made sure to lower the room temperature an hour before he arrived.

He touches my arm again, lingering this time. I don’t move.

“You’re hard to read,” he says, voice lower than it was earlier. “I like that.”

“I’m very readable,” I say quietly. “If you know the language.”

He swallows. Hard.

There’s a moment when the silence lingers just long enough to become something else. He shifts on the couch, reaches out, and his fingers touch my hip. Light at first. Then firmer.

I watch his eyes as he does it. He’s waiting for a reaction.

I give him none.

His hand drifts, just slightly, just enough to feel the curve of me under the fabric. Nothing overt. Nothing he could call inappropriate. Not yet.

Then I shift.

I reach for my glass, moving my body just enough to dislodge his hand.

“I should get some water,” I say casually, rising before he can follow the impulse further.

He blinks, caught between arousal and confusion. It’s my favorite state. The exact moment their bodies betray their logic. When they wonder if they've crossed a line or if I've drawn it closer just to move it again, in the kitchen, I take my time. Open the fridge. Pour the water slowly. Let the silence grow just long enough for him to want to fill it. When I return, he’s sitting straighter. Mask back on. But not quite right. His legs are spread wider now. His hands are fidgeting.

“Everything okay?” I ask lightly, handing him a fresh glass. “Yeah. Just,” he shrugs, smiling like he doesn’t know why he’s smiling. “You make me nervous. In a good way.” I sit beside him again. Slightly farther away this time.

He notices. Good. “I’ve been called worse,” I say. We talked for a few more minutes, but nothing important came up. I let him lead the conversation. He asks about music, travel, and if I’ve ever gone skydiving. All weak attempts at lightness, something to distract from the heat still curling under his shirt collar.

I watch him with clinical interest now. He’s recalibrating. Trying to interpret a boundary I never stated. I nod. Smile when expected. Let my knee bump his again. But I don’t close the distance. He doesn’t reach out this time. He’s learning. Eventually, he glances at the clock and stands. Too polite to overstay, too hopeful to end things definitively.

“This was fun,” he says. “I’d love to see you again.” I nod. “I’ll let you know.” He hesitates, wants more, a hug, a kiss, an invitation upstairs. I offer none. I open the door and let him walk through it, still unsure if the night went well or not.

Perfect.

When it shuts behind him, I smile. He’s already mine.