Page 15 of Played By Design

I’ve been home for an hour.

Maybe two.

I’ve lost track of time.

The house has dissolved into the blue-green glow of the tablet screen and the faint light from the hall. My bunny-eared headphones mute the world to a distant hum, leaving only the scrolling beat-map and the ping of each strike.

My knees are pulled up, heels digging into the cushion, the screen close enough that the light reflects off my glasses. The hexes pulse beneath my fingers, and I follow their rhythm.

A tremor runs through my ring finger as it lands on the next strike zone, not a miss, but so close the green light flickers yellow before solidifying.

The Blue Note always leaves a residue.

The good kind at first.

Kain’s guitar followed me all the way home, riffs replaying in my head while the bass still seemed to pulse through my bones. I was wired when we walked through the door, too full of music and movement to sit still.

Then the crash hit. Sensory overload. Need time to reboot.

Now my shoulders are hunched near my ears, tension cording the muscles along my neck. Outside, a car’s headlights sweep across the ceiling. Its engine slips through my headphones as a distant hum before fading away.

The strike zones accelerate as the beat-map hits its first difficulty spike. My fingers chase the pattern outward, thumbs to index, middle to ring.

Numbness creeps into my pinky until I barely register the screen beneath it, but the strike flashes green, and the combo counter ticks up another digit.

The music that felt so good at the lounge has tangled with everything else. Bodies crowding too close. A dozen conversations bleeding into a wash of noise. The Alpha’s hand gripping my arm.

It all inflates inside my head like a balloon, pressure stretching behind my eyes with nowhere else to go.

Another sequence drops.

Green. Green. Green.

Each strike gives me one thing to follow. One pattern. One answer. The balloon slowly deflates with every completed sequence, everything else going quiet.

Kain stops next to where I sit on the couch.

His presence registers as a subtle change in pressure, a warmth along my right side where the couch cushion dips.

The scent of him cuts through everything else, clean skin from his shower and the pheromones that always settle my nerves.

“Bunny.” He holds a toothbrush already loaded with paste and a small cup of warm water.

I tip my chin up, along with the tablet, and open my mouth.

The bristles hit my front teeth, and Kain cups the side of my jaw, his thumb resting on my cheekbone to hold me steady. The mint spreads across my tongue, sharp and clean, clearing away some of the pressure.

He follows the same pattern every time: front teeth, left side, right side, the roof of my mouth, the insides of my cheeks. He’s been doing this for so many years that it’s become natural.

If I fall asleep at my desk, he wakes me up to brush my teeth before putting me to bed. Other times, I’m already in bed, and he brings the toothbrush to me.

I keep my eyes on the strike zones.

Green, green, green.

My thumb hits a flawless rhythm while Kain works the brush along my gumline.

He rinses the brush in the cup before holding it to my lips. I spit without looking.