Page 19 of Rhythm and Rapture (Behind the Lens #5)

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.

She looks at the tablet, blinking several times as if remembering where she is and what she's supposed to be doing. "Right. Yes. The next variable. Ash's approach—unexpected, playful stimulation."

But when she looks at me again, there's something different in her eyes.

Something that suggests the theoretical framework she's been using to manage her nerves is starting to give way to actual feeling.

The Hidden Chemist is still there, but Sabina is starting to emerge, curious and brave and absolutely stunning in her vulnerability.

And that's exactly what I was hoping for.

Watching Roman systematically dismantle Sabina's professional composure should feel like voyeurism. Instead, it feels like revelation. Every micro-expression she tries to hide, every physiological response she attempts to quantify, only makes her more human, more real, more magnetic.

Roman's hand travels up her arm with deliberate slowness, and I catalog her responses with the same attention I'd give to learning a new piece.

The way her breathing hitches when he reaches her shoulder.

How her free hand flutters, seeking something to anchor herself.

The slight flush creeping up her neck, visible even in the strategic lighting.

I shift slightly, trying to ignore the heat building in my chest. Ash is practically vibrating beside me, his fingers drumming against his thigh. We're both caught between professional distance and something much more raw.

"Your pupils are dilating," Roman observes, and I notice he's right. Behind her mask, her eyes are blown wide with more than just arousal—there's trust there that hits me unexpectedly hard.

When she reports her heart rate—"Ninety-four beats per minute"—her voice wavers. I've watched hours of her streams. She can explain molecular structures while undressing without missing a beat. But Roman's simple touch has her struggling for words.

The monitors show the data, but I see what they can't measure. The way she unconsciously leans toward him. The quick swipe of her tongue across her bottom lip. How her weight shifts in those heels, making her calf muscles tremble.

When Roman starts singing to her—that song she'd quoted—her whole body changes. Tension melts even as her arousal climbs. It's intimate in a way that makes my throat tight.

She's letting us see her. Really see her. And fuck if that isn't the most arousing thing I've ever witnessed.

My hands clench and unclench at my sides. Part of me is taking mental notes, but mostly I'm just... affected. By her trust. By her bravery. By the way she's trying so hard to maintain control while clearly wanting to let go.

Soon it'll be my turn. The thought makes my pulse race in a way that has nothing to do with performance and everything to do with her.