The Interview

A/N: This Story Focuses More on Asexual Eroticism. Also shoutout of Thanks to volunteer editor hhhnnga for helping edit this story!

***

Ida Claire Sinewood was up to her nose in paperwork. Normally, the sound of the newsroom ambience was the only thing she wanted to listen to all day. There was something comforting about the never-ending phone calls, the clicky clack of fast typing, overhearing snippets of muttered conversations; the sounds of hurried footsteps to get to the printer, to get another cup of coffee, to run out to get the latest scoop, or the next interview.

Six years later and one-hundred-sixty pounds heavier since she'd graduated university, she'd become convinced that she missed her chance. Despite her own attempts to get what she hoped would be her big break to move up from being a lowly fact checker of everyone else's stories to being a lead journalist. Even if it was just once. It was her one goal--the one thing that she was living for. The one thing that kept her wanting to wake up every morning.

With a sigh, Ida checked her email inbox again, clicking the refresh button and expecting it to come up empty again. She buzzed her lips as the browser took forever (longer than five seconds) to load. She hefted her four-hundred pound body up from her chair and waddled her way over to the break room to get another mug of tea and a cup of ice.

Her button-up blouse looked stretched on her abundant and broad bust, and the slacks she wore made her feel frumpy. She hated dressing so professionally all the time, but she loved being a journalist, so it was something she was willing to put up with. If it were up to her, she'd be in her pajama bottoms and fuzzy bunny slippers, listening to goa trance without her headphones and typing up stories between scoops of ice cream.

Maybe living somewhere different and far away from boring Nebraska. She could email her stories in, with a flexible weekly deadline. The rest of the day, she could spend at the beach collecting seashells and taking a nap on the cove, feeling the waves wash over her body over and over like a tactile lullaby. But such things only happened in her dreams--her fantasies.

She had so many dreams she was trying to make a reality. The latest one being, she had sent an email to this band she'd been following since her late teens, hoping maybe she could get an exclusive interview with the lead singer--who was rumored to be the ultimate recluse and refused any official interviews with anyone. He would write his own updates on his website or do written FAQ-style interviews to send to magazines to promote his music, but never in person nor on live television.

Most people assumed he was a fake because of his level of discretion and reclusivity. But Ida just thought he was shy, and the only time he felt brave was when he was on stage singing--which was different than having to talk to someone about whatever they wanted to ask you about. It could be anxiety-inducing for some people to talk about themselves for the sake of strangers. Ida could respect that. Nevertheless, she reached out to him to see if he would consent to an interview anyway.

Having gotten her tea and making her way back to her seat, Ida brought the mug to her lips to take another sip when her eyes widened at the message in her inbox.

"He replied. Holy shit!"

Clicking the email open, Ida took a deep breath, setting the mug of tea down on the desk, and pulled on her glasses from the chain she had around her neck. She leaned forward to read the reply.

Dear Ida Claire Sinewood,

This is Clint Wood from the kink-hop band, High Protocol. I received your email and wanted to reply personally. After some thought, and consulting the consent of the band, I will acquiesce and grant you one (1) interview at a location of my choosing. (my private island). Please reply to this email upon receiving it, and I can make arrangements for your travel to my location. No cost to you, of course.

CW

Sitting back in her seat a moment, she blinked a few times. "Holy shit. Is this for real?"

There was only one way to find out. She sat forward to start typing a reply. Maybe this was it. Maybe this was the moment her whole life would change. Maybe this was when at least one of her dreams finally became reality.

***

As the plane landed in the airport terminal, Ida was ripped from sleep. She felt groggy; jet-lagged by some random obscene amount of time difference, Ida shambled down to baggage claim to retrieve her bag. Squinting in the glaring fluorescent lights, in the near sterile-looking airport, by the main exit, Ida saw a man in a black suit with a checkered tie and white gloves. He was wearing a visor over his eyes and had long dark hair tied back in a long braid. He was holding a sign with Ida's name on it.

"Well, that's new," Ida said as she rubbed her eyes to make sure she wasn't dreaming. She looked around; it seemed comical, or surreal, that the airport was practically empty and this weird, secret agent-looking bodyguard figure was holding a sign with her name on it, like she was the celebrity.

"Uhm, Hi, I'm Ms. Sinewood."

"Follow me," was all the man said as he lowered the sign, accepted her bag, and carried it for her as they went toward the door where a limo waited with another person dressed identical to the first guy. He opened the door for Ida, while the other put her bag in the trunk.

"Mr. Wood is very private; you'll need to open the box once inside the vehicle and follow its instructions. Do you understand and consent to comply?"

"Uhm, yeah, I guess."

Stepping aside, the footman helped Ida into the vehicle and then got in after her while the other man went to sit in the front seat with the driver. Once inside the limo cabin, Ida found the box and opened it. It held a smooth leather blindfold and a note.

Put on the blindfold. To protect my privacy and to ensure your safety. You'll be instructed when you can remove it. Enjoy the ride. If there is any music you'd prefer to listen to during your commute, let the travel team know and they will comply.

CW

Ida chuckled awkwardly, "Wow, okay."

She set the box and the note aside and placed the blindfold on, making sure it was snug and secure.

The footman knocked on the window divider and said something in another language, and the car started and started moving.

"If you require music, state your preference and it will be done."

Ida thought for a moment. "How long is this ride?"

"I cannot reveal that information, but it is a considerable length from here."

"Can you play that one album by High Protocol? It's my favorite album. I'm trying to think of the title of it. It's a concept album. It has themes about obedience and there are a lot of ASMR moaning tracks in it."

"Jurisprudence."

"That's the one. Just play it through. It will put me straight to sleep. Unless you are willing to answer some questions as part of the interview?"

The man shook his head, "I am not. Your interview is with Mr. Wood, exclusively."

"Fair enough, I half figured that was the case but I had to ask. You can start the music then."

The album started playing in the limo cabin's speakers. Ida sighed and relaxed, laying her head back on the seat, half-leaning against the window.

As she drifted off to sleep, she dreamt. She dreamt of Clint Wood and High Protocol, like she had many times before in her life, though, this dream was not a recurring one from her past, but a new dream altogether.

She was standing in the middle of a forest, on a wild unknown island, the sun baked down on her skin. Her body was barely covered in some sort of bikini loincloth outfit, showing off every curve of her body in its voluptuous glory. She looked around and called out. "Hello?"

The drums began. She felt the sound vibrate under her feet. She followed the pulse of the drums to a village where there was a small stage with the members of High Protocol performing. And there he was. Ida stared at Clint until he looked over at her. The music stopped and she walked toward him. He stood there expectantly, 'til she reached the stage. Her bare feet clapped onto the hard wood of the stage, and as she did, she felt him sigh.

"You're here," Ida said softly to him. He nodded, then reached for her and pulled her into a kiss. The world seemed to stop as climactic pleasure plunged into her body, like pulses of power and promise.

The scent of him was intoxicating and hypnotic, drawing her deeper down into the throes of pleasure. His lips were so soft, and his tongue was dexterous in how it danced with her own. It made her sigh and sway. His strong hand moved to her back, holding her steady. She never felt more safe in her life.

Ida felt cared for. She felt seen. She felt free. She felt captured. She felt like she belonged in his embrace. As if she'd fallen from the world's grace at the sight of his face, she wanted to be no other place. Just pressed against his body, so very tall, and so very strong, where she felt perfect like nothing would ever feel wrong, again. Ever.

There wasn't really a good gauge of time--it seemed slowed but rushed at the same time. The car drove for a while until it reached a ferry dock. After they pulled into the ferry dock, it took them to the private island. The whole time, Ida slept, blissfully listening to the dulcet tones of the man she was about to interview. His attendants were quiet the whole way until they reached the island, where they had to wake her from her slumber. Given how deep a sleeper she was, everything they tried failed. So, they resorted to carrying her to the house on the island, along with her bags. Between the three of them, they were able to make light work of the curvy journalist.

***

The smell of brewing tea woke Ida and she looked around, startled that she was in a very comfortable bed with an ajar terrace door that had a sheer curtain over it, blowing from the wind. She rubbed her eyes. From the light trickling in through the window, it was unclear if it was sunrise. She looked around and found another note with her name on it.

Ms. Sinewood,

Welcome to the Island. I look forward to our interview.

Clint Wood

P. S.

Don't be alarmed. The travel team had to carry you to the house, but no harm came to you. You were difficult to wake. There should be some food for you nearby, something small. The trip over can make many quite peckish.

Ida set the note down and saw a covered plate over on a small table across the room. And there was a mason jar of sun tea as well.

"Wow, this place is like a fairy tale. It will be hard to leave and go back to my boring life after this, that's for sure."

She got out of bed and noticed she was wearing different clothes. They were her own jersey fabric pajamas. She'd packed two pairs, in two different colors. This set was the pastel green one. They were loose flowy pants with a matching tank top. She got them a size or two bigger than she needed. It was a comfort that she was wearing her own clothes that she'd packed. Her eyes scanned for the suitcase she'd brought and as she looked around and moved her hand up to push her hair out of her face, she noticed that she had on a kind of wrist watch. She squinted at it, and noticed it was monitoring her vital signs. "Well this isn't mine. What is this? Is it some sort of Fitbit or...?" She tried to take it off, but it wouldn't budge.

"Weird, I'll fuss with it later, I'm starving!"

Sitting down in a comfortable lounge chair by the table, she uncovered the plate and found a delicious meal of seasoned potatoes and well-cooked spiced meat with steamed vegetables. She began devouring the meal, as she was eating, there was a knock on the door.

"Yes?"

The door opened and Clint Wood himself entered the room, skin the same muted brown as the wet sand that kissed the coves of his island. His long dark hair spilled down his back. It was shiny and held a subtle wave at the roots, where it was parted down the middle and spilled straighter past his shoulders.

He was wearing an open-tunic and harem pants, barefoot with painted toe-nails and beaded anklets. The thin undershirt, tank top was dark as his hair, tied the outfit together that made him look like he'd been peeled out of a book. It only cemented the 'fairy tale' vibe that Ida felt just by being here. He looked somehow casual and formal all at once with the kind of grace that had to be innate or at the very least very, very well practiced and hard to teach.

"Did you enjoy your meal?"

Ida spun around at the sound of his voice and her eyes widened. "Oh my god. You're here."

"Well, yes, it is my island. Why wouldn't I be here?"

"You're Clint Valentine Wood, lead singer of the kink-hop band High Protocol."

"Correct. You have yet to answer my question, Ms. Sinewood."

"Sorry. Yes, it was delicious. Did you cook it yourself or...?"

"No, I'm not very skilled in the kitchen unless you count mixing drinks. I keep a liquid diet when it comes to ingesting food. Smoothies, tea, coffee... cocktails. Things like that."

"Why? Do you have a dietary condition or something?"

"You could say that, yes. Come with me out to the courtyard, and you can interview me properly."

"Dressed like this?"

"Did you bring a film crew with you to see you?"

"No."

"Would you prefer to get changed into something... else?"

"Honestly? No."

"Then yes, like this. Follow me."

Ida Claire followed Clint Wood out of the guest room and down the lavish hallway before emerging into an open courtyard that reminded Ida of Spanish style houses she'd seen when she visited her extended family in Texas a few years back. There was a koi pond with a fountain and lounging furniture that looked out of place, just a large, heavily cushioned, patched-up couch plopped in the open grass of the courtyard - equidistant from the fountain and some sort of tree. He sat down on the couch and she sat near him. She watched as he leaned on his elbow and looked at her.

"Oh shit, I forgot to grab my notebook or my phone to take notes."

"That may be useful." Clint glanced over at one of the wait staff and motioned with his hand. The staff member bowed, and returned moments later with a clipboard that had a ream of paper pinned under it, as well as a box of pens and pencils.

"The clipboard has an LED light attached to it."

"Why?"

"Sunset."

"Right. If I had said I had forgotten my laptop would you have brought out a laptop I could borrow?" Ida Claire asked, unable to help herself.

Clint smirked. Then glanced at the wait staff person and back to Ida and shook his head. Ida chuckled nervously, pushing some of her curly hair away from her face and trying to not feel self conscious at the way her arm fat jiggled when she moved her body.

Uncapping a pen she wrote the words 'Interview with Clint Valentine Wood' at the top of the paper in swooping almost juvenile looking letters, with bubbles as the dots over the 'i's. Glancing up at him, she gave him what she hoped was a professional smile, when she felt anything but professional and was trying to not beat herself up over it.

This was a once and a lifetime opportunity, even if it wasn't going to get her a front page story with an exclusive interview over all the biggest magazines. She got to sit this close to him and ask him anything she desired. She wanted to make the most of it. So she stopped trying to remember the prepared list of questions she forgot in her room somewhere and just asked what was on her mind, what was in her heart to ask him about.

"I'm going to start with the first question I've always wondered about. I have checked your FAQ on your website for years and looked for clues in your songs, and nothing has directly answered it fully. But uhm, What is your ethnicity? The FAQ just says mixed. But mixed with what?"

Clint smirked and averted his eyes. "Unfortunately, The full answer to that is I don't know. I was told my birth mother was of Anglo and Malaysian descent, but as far as my birth father no such detail was provided. My conception was not planned. I was a ward of the state until I was adopted at eight months old. And when I was ready to try to reconnect with my birth parents as an adult, It was too late, my birth mother was the only one listed and she was listed as dead, and had been for some time, and she was the only one who knew who my birth father was."

"That has to be so hard. I mean I know if it were me, I'd have a whole host of identity issues."

"Is there a question in there, Ms. Sinewood?"

Ida stammered and tried to re-word her phrase into a question. "I mean, do you have identity issues from not knowing for sure what all you are, and the fact that you look rather racially ambiguous?"

Clint took a deep breath. "People have their assumptions when they look at me and I do not correct them because I don't have the information to correct them with." Clint replied. And the hollow note in his voice, made Ida feel like she was on thin ice on this subject.

"Right, right, well, let's switch gears, let me go back to the question I asked before." Ida turned the page of the notebook, trying for what she hoped was a lighter topic. "Why do you only keep a liquid diet? That was the question I asked before we came out here. Is it to protect your voice or something?"

"Pretty to think so but no. I keep a liquid diet because..." he paused, deciding how transparent he wanted to be in answering this question. "Because I'm autistic and I hate the sensation of textures other than liquid in my mouth. I believe doctors would also call that ARFID eating disorder. That, combined with an iron deficiency, and being spiritually vampiric, it is just easier to keep a liquid diet."

"Spiritually vampiric, what do you mean by that?"

"It means I have an energy deficiency and I fill that deficit by feeding on the energy and souls of other living beings."

"So are you undead or...?"

"Not undead. At least not physically. When my depression gets the best of me, that's another story," he answered, with a slightly self-deprecating smile.

"So you have autism and depression?"

"Among other things, yes."

"What other things?"

Clint took a deep breath and narrowed his eyes at Ida. Weighing whether or not he wanted to disclose all of that; but it was only one interview. He figured why not. "Well, if you want the full list, I suppose I am open to giving it to you. Even if it may cost me my fans if any of them happen to... judge me or think less of me because of whatever societal toxicity they may have swallowed during this life."

Moving to tuck one leg under the other and turn more fully to face her while she was writing things down.

"Autism, Avoidant Restrictive Food Intake Disorder, A. K. A., ARFID, Major Depressive Disorder, and Immune Thrombocytopenia with Anemia."

"Sorry, can you... say that last one again? I'm not sure I spelled it right."

"I can write it down for you."

Clint reached for the clipboard, and their hands grazed each other. Ida felt her whole body thrum with pleasure and heat from her attraction to this man. She stared at him while he wrote down the correct spelling. Her mind was squealing internally so much about having a sample of his handwriting that she had spaced out. She was startled when he placed the clipboard back on her lap.

He tilted his head at her. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah. Fine. Super fine, actually. Just living the dream, you know."

He smiled at her then. "Good."

"So what makes you think your fans may think less of you or judge you because of your conditions?"

"When you're famous, people think you are a paragon; having any sort of shortcomings is a detriment. People idolize me. The price of fame, and my reclusivity, adds an interesting twist to that. But also, I endured a great deal of judgment in my formative years. I wasn't always skilled at socializing smoothly. I had to fail a great deal and lose a lot of people close to me to get where I am today."

"That makes sense. Did any of them try to come back into your life now that you're famous?"

Clint chuckled. "You'd think so, wouldn't you? But no. I think the niche of my genre only gained more distance from those people. I pioneered a genre of music solely about living a BDSM, kink-infused lifestyle. People may think the world is forward-thinking and progressive but there are a lot of marginal corners that mainstream society has yet to learn the truth about. They cling to their stereotypes given in a heated moment of shotgun matrimony, to an earlier era where things were a lot more hush-hush and shoved under rugs or in closets, rather than talked about openly and freely in a civil dialog."

"So well said!" Ida praised, without looking up from writing down her notes, wanting to get that quote down verbatim in his words. She took a deep breath. "So what was it about BDSM and kink that made you want to create a whole genre of music around it or dedicate your life to it in this way?"

"I named my band High Protocol because of my love of rules. And how, for me, rules can feel like a hug. The same way bondage can make me feel safe. Because I'm a vampire, being around other people is as stimulating as it is draining. I need the energy of others to survive and function, but I also don't really connect to people in a way that others do because of my autism. Having a world where everything has rules, roles, and protocols is attractive because it is laid out, and I can understand the world better. If the whole world was that way, societally, I think that would be a kind of paradise for me and those like me."

"When you say those like you, what do you mean? Other autistics? Other kinky people or other vampires?"

"Yes," Clint answered evasively with a slight chuckle. Ida smiled, trying to keep her professional-cool mask on and not fawn and swoon over how amazing he looked in person when he chuckled.

"So, there is a rumor that your band is your harem or something like that, any truth to that?"

"I wouldn't phrase it quite like that, but I can understand why the tabloids and media would use the word like that. It does sound more scandalous to say that the kink-hop rock star has a band with his harem. Siobhan of the band is my submissive, one of my energy donors, but most of those I am intimate with reside here on the island as my caregivers and my donors. Having one person who can play donor in the band functions for when we go on tour and I don't get enough energy from performing, or I need a deeper feed."

"What does a deeper feed look like?" Ida couldn't help but ask. She felt Clint go silent in a way that made her look away from him. It was heavy, the silence; she'd never felt a silence like this one before.

The device on her wrist started beeping. Ida frowned and looked at it. "What is this stupid thing anyway? Why can't I take it off?"

"It's a heart rate monitor. There was a great deal of panic when we couldn't wake you. So it was the best we could do to make sure you weren't dying."

"So you keep heart rate monitors on hand that you can just pass out to visiting journalists?"

"Immune Thrombocytopenia with Anemia affects the circulatory system. I have been collecting heart rate monitors for a very long time, because I have always needed them. I have a pretty severe case of it, and I require transfusions when things get too bad. And that, for the record, is the only way I intake blood. Nothing like those vampires you see on documentaries that intake it orally. That is too high a risk for me to be that... Sanguanarian about my vampiric practices."

"But you do feed on energy, though? Could you show me what that looks like, so I can understand?"

Clint took a deep breath. "That is a very private thing, Ms. Sinewood."

"Is that a no? Like you said, there are no cameras watching us. I really am just curious."

"Let me think about it. We should take a break. Perhaps since we are on the topic of food, I can have the chef prepare you something. You can organize your thoughts on where you want to go on the interview next while you dine. And I'll consider your request and get back to you afterwards."

"Okay."

Ida felt him physically close off after she asked him that. And with this dismissal that he called a pause, she wondered if she'd blown her only shot to write a frontpage story. One of the servants came and ushered her out of the courtyard, she glanced back once to see Clint walking in a different direction. His monochrome colors against the growing night made him look ethereal in the distance.

Noting in her mind all the things she said he struggled with, Ida was starting to beat herself up for being too curious and not tactful. She wanted more than anything to be sitting back there with him and asking clever things that felt professional and appropriate that only summoned his mild-mannered and eloquent replies, as well as his charming and shiver-inducing chuckle that felt like being tickled by the wind and being apart of something bigger than herself. She felt connected and cherished just by being near him and acting as a stimulus for his joy.

***

The meal felt hollow. No matter how delicious it was, it didn't satisfy her. She sat there in her own anxiety for what felt like hours before she got up and made to leave and head back to her room and maybe string together some sort of story. But she felt defeated. It was the fangirl in her that was despondent; the journalist in her still felt as resilient and relentless as ever--maybe that was what moved her to get up from the dining area and to start wandering around the magnificent island house. It was so clean and immaculate; there was abstract art on the walls, and everything felt so sterile and polished, like she was walking around in a magazine.

"This must be what it is like to have servants for everything," she mumbled under her breath, as she looked at a small hall table with a single pink rose in a vase. The table was placed against a mirror which faced a door. The door was ajar. She carefully peeked inside. What she saw shook her to the core.

It was Clint and another man--he was holding the man and the man was shivering, moaning. Ida could recognize those moans anywhere; they were on her favorite High Protocol album. At that next moment, the other man started to weep.

"Shh, shhh, it's alright, I know it hurts. You've been spiraling for days now, do you know that?"

"S-Sorry. I've been trying to hide it. I've been trying to be good, Mr. Wood, I promise. I have been doing all the protocol things just right. I promise I can do the work, I just had a rough day, I had to listen to that album the whole ride here, and then I just... I just..."

"I know. I know... Give me your pain. And I'll give you my peace."

The crying man nodded. And Clint pulled the other man close to kiss him. The soft moan from the man was muffled, and Ida watched as one of Clint's hands reached around to hold his back, the other pushed the man's hand down from reaching to hold him back. Clint held his hand as he kissed him, but it looked different than kissing. It was like he was eating something from the man's mouth. And it dawned on her, THIS was feeding. Ignorant of who and what he was would just see it as kissing--just two men kissing, with one man consoling the other. But it wasn't; even the air felt charged with some sort of electric energy.

Someone growled, and Ida felt her heart rate increase so it made her bio monitor start beeping. And the two men froze. Clint turned to look at her. His eyes widened. Ida gasped. She ran down the hall, trying to get as far as she could so she could calm down, so that beeping would shut the fuck up. She found a corner of the hallway and finally fussed the silly thing off of her chubby wrist. She threw it on the floor and ran down the hallway until she nearly collided with a servant, screaming as she fell over on her ass. Just when it felt like this dream was going to turn into a nightmare, Clint rounded the corner, and he knelt down to offer her a hand to help her up.

She stared at his offered hand and then up to his face.

"I won't hurt you. I just want to help you up. You took quite the fall."

"You won't feed on my pain?"

He averted his eyes, clenched his jaw for half a moment before answering. "No."

She took his hand, squeezing as she hefted her body back to her feet. Then, he let go of her hand. "I'm sorry for snooping and possibly breaking your heart monitor when I finally got it off my wrist."

Clint crossed his arms across his chest. "That is not the best way to repay someone's hospitality, Ms. Sinewood."

"I know. I'm sorry." Ida said, and then jumped when one of the servants came up behind her from down the hall, holding the heart monitor she had been wearing.

"It's still functional, Mr. Wood."

"Thank you, Ivar. Can you go see that Todd is alright? He's in the Rose room."

"Right away, sir."

At that, the servant turned on his heel and went back down the hall to do as instructed. Clint looked at Ida and clenched his jaw again. His gaze as he looked at her was hard, forced, and any charm that was there earlier when they were in the courtyard was absent.

"Ms. Sinewood, I want to show you something, since you need to be shown things to understand."

He placed the heart monitor on his wrist and tapped a few buttons. It started beeping loudly and very quickly.

"Is that your heartbeat?"

"Yes. When it is this fast it's called tachycardic. I can barely breathe. You can't tell, can you? This is the level of social masking I spent years cultivating. Do you understand? I walked the same distance you did, and my heart is beating this fast. It is hurting me. It is hard to breathe, speak and stand upright like this. But I am terrified of appearing weak around a stranger who just violated my privacy with her curiosity. Terrified wondering if I will be able to maintain the facade of control over my body that is always out of my control. Do you understand? When I said deep energetic feeding is a private thing, I meant it. And you did not even allow me the time I asked for to process your request before you--"

The heart rate beeping increased speed to a level that began to alert servants. Ida could see them come down the hallway.

"Take her to her room," he instructed one of the servants, and Ida was slowly guided away. As she was turning the corner, she turned to glance back and saw Clint sway, losing his balance and holding on to the servant that had approached in the hall. Once she got to the guest room, she turned to the servant before he left her and asked, "Is he going to be okay?"

The servant, without missing a beat, replied, "Please stay in this room. One of us will retrieve you when it is safe to ambulate around the house. Thank you."

He closed the door behind him as he exited. Ida half-wondered if it was locked or not, but didn't decide to test it. Instead, she launched herself on the bed, buried her face in the pillow, and bawled her eyes out. Her heart raced, wondering if she'd killed one of her role models because of her selfish curiosity. If she did, she could never be a journalist again.

She didn't remember falling asleep and didn't know how many hours had passed when she woke the next day. She felt horrible, the anxious dread moving through her blood like a kind of sludge of decaying despair. She wanted to go home. She wanted this weekend to never have happened. She wanted to have never sent the email. She felt so much regret over everything that had happened.

Days passed and meals were left for her without a word either way on the status of Clint. The fear mounted in her heart, and it was hard to eat. It was hard to do anything. On the evening of the third or fourth day, the door opened again, but Ida just dismissed it as another servant bringing her food.

Facing away from the door laying on the bed, she didn't expect to see him kneeling in front of her until he entered her field of vision. His eyes, blank but not closed, as dark and black as his hair, which looked much frizzier than before. He tilted his head at her. "Ms. Sinewood."

"You're alive."

"Yes. I'm alive."

"I could have killed you by being stupid."

He shook his head. "Don't take that on. Please."

"But I interrupted you from your feeding session. If I wasn't there, you wouldn't have had to exert yourself chasing after me."

He didn't say anything, because there was nothing to say; there was no question or anything to correct. "Ms. Sinewood. How are you feeling?"

"After all this, you still care about how I feel?"

"Of course. You're my guest."

"I've been going out of my mind. Anxious about everything I've done since I've been here. Worried that I'd killed you. That someone I respect and admire--that your opinion of me has been dashed in the dirt. And you're debating with your servants about kicking me out and doubling down on your security and never letting anyone near you again to learn your story. Not able to eat, barely able to sleep. I feel... like this whole weekend was a mistake and that you hate me."

"Hate demands a great deal of energy. Energy that I do not have to spare so frivolously to a journalist who has a very underdeveloped understanding of boundaries and an overdeveloped sense of curiosity," he replied.

"If you had the energy, though...?"

"I don't. So please let's not spend the last few hours we have left of this interview with a dead-end speculation about my opinion over something that could have happened regardless of your interruption or not."

"Why me?" Ida asked.

"Pardon?"

"Why did you reply to me to interview you? Why did you spend all this money to bring me here? Why did you even say yes to be interviewed by me anyway?"

Clint blinked at her. "Why did you send the email?"

"I've been a fan of High Protocol for years, my whole life it feels like. I had a delusional moment of hope that maybe I would be different and you'd say yes to me when you've ignored or denied all the others who asked you for interviews."

"And that is exactly what happened. Why does it vex you that something you hoped for actually happened?"

"Not a common pattern in my life."

"I can understand that. I suppose I said yes to you because of your email. It was refreshingly simple, disarming and humble. You weren't promising me anything or begging me for anything. You just wanted to get to know me. 'One soul to another,' I think was your wording. And you didn't know how apt that phrasing was like you do now. I guess some part of me was curious as well. Just who and why this random woman would reach out to me. No articles to your name aside from some high school newspaper articles, and some articles in a college newspaper, and then... nothing. I thought maybe someone that isolated would possibly understand my reclusivity."

"And now?"

"Now I don't know. I honestly don't know. There is this... draw to you that I haven't felt toward anyone in a very long time."

"What do you mean? Do I smell like a giant cheeseburger or something?"

Clint laughed--it was a silent exhale of air, but it made the corner of his eyes crinkle and he shook his head. "Not quite what I meant. Just... I almost wish this wasn't just a one-sided interview. I wish that I could know you in return. Like a conversation."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"What could you possibly want to know about me?"

Clint reached to caress the side of her face moving hair out of the way.

"Everything..."