"I'm not sure we should do this, Mint."

"How do the percentages look, baby?"

Mint loves percentages. What could I say? That's something we have in common.

"Well, the sex with you is less than 69% creepy," I inform him. "But you're definitely more than 18% gross, I must say."

"Is that a bad thing?" he asks.

"Hell no."

"And what about the third parameter?" he asks. "I hope it's more than 13% interesting, baby."

I smile instead of answering. In that department, I have nothing to complain about.

Mint lets me experiment with his body.

He allows everything. And I mean, everything. Pretty wild things, too.

As long as I hold him after gathering enough data for a proper analysis, he feels loved, and he forgets to protest, no matter what I do to him.

What an idiot.

So I run tests on him. Systematic, scientifically planned tests, on a daily basis. Well, truth be told, even more frequently because Mint needs sex more than once a day, according to my observations. He said that it was only accurate when he was stressed. But after monitoring his daily behavioral pattern in his natural habitat for a week, I'm confident enough to draw the conclusion that his usual way of living can be considered stressful, in general.

Currently, I'm conducting a comprehensive research study aimed to determine Mint's breaking point.

It's a problematic issue. He has an almost inhuman endurance, and the same goes for his tenacity. Also, he clings to his usual conscious and collected state until the last moment possible before giving in.

Even when I'm causing pure pleasure to him, without any distress or pain, he acts as if it was some form of torture he has to endure, pressing his mouth together, giving away nothing. Then, unexpectedly, from one moment to the next, as if at the flick of a switch, he becomes incoherent, thrashing around, begging for release.

That's his breaking point. It's incredibly exciting to experiment with that. Scientifically, I mean.

It's such a pleasure to detect that single volatile moment in time when something changes in him, and he falls to pieces. Scientifically, again, obviously. I feel like David Attenborough observing a bird of paradise every time it happens.

The thesis behind the practice isn't very fascinating, though. He's used to being in control. But after he gives it up, he enjoys sex so much more. He gets lost in the sensation.

Oh, and he can come rubbing himself against the side of my thigh. That theory got proved with flying colors, too. And while it was a huge scientific breakthrough, it was a bit scary, as well. One, there was an unexpected amount of bodily fluids smeared all over me. Two, nearing the end, Mint was begging me to hold him tighter, or else he wouldn't survive. Okay, I shouldn't have taken that literally, probably. But who knows. With Mint, everything is a bit different. I held him very tight to save his life, just to be certain, so I guess I'll never know. He washed the sticky goo off of me in exchange, at least, because I refused to touch it even with soap and water.

So we're good. Except when my weaknesses get in the way. Except when...

"Are you talking to me, Mint? Sorry, I didn't notice it."

"You're the only person in the room other than me, baby."

"I don't think so."

"Why?" he asks, looking confused. "Do you believe in the monsters living under the bed, or what?"

"You were talking to someone called... um..."

"Jane?"

"That's it! Her!"

Mint buries his face in his hands. There must be something wrong.

"Have you got a headache?" I ask him, massaging his shoulders lightly. I know he loves that. He loves it when I touch him. I still prefer acoustic stimulation to tactile, but I'm not selfish. I take his needs into account, like a normal female born with a caring instinct in an afternoon soap opera would.

"Yes," he answers. "You're giving me one."

"Explain."

He just sighs.

"—please," I add quickly, noticing that I sound like Seven of Nine, again, rather than one of the Stepford Wives.

"Is your real name a classified piece of information?" he asks. "Why can't I know it?"

"I told you already. It's... it's..."

"You forgot again what you lied to me, didn't you?"

"Um... Jane?" I guess, putting the clues together, finally.

Mint sighs again. He looks like he has a very bad headache.

"Look, baby," he says, taking my hand. "I know how hard it can be to change identities and remain yourself. But it's fucking annoying that you keep lying to me."

I breathe out. Once, for the time being.

"I don't do it on purpose, okay? I told you already. I have problems with names."

"Okay." He nods very slowly. "I understand that you don't trust me."

I breathe out three times. I feel my chest tightening and my pulse quickening. Just a minute ago, everything was all right, and now, I'm threatened. Something bad will happen soon, I know. When I don't react properly to names, something bad happens. Always.

"I'm sorry, baby," he says. "This thing, between us..."

He trails off, but I already know what he's going to say. That it's not going to work. Because I don't care. I'm not putting effort into this, so I'm not worth the trouble.

"... is something fucked up from the very beginning," he goes on.

Yes, I know. This is how it usually goes. Because I'm not fit for this. I'm weird. And annoying. And problematic. And—

"Because I kidnapped you, and I'm keeping you in a fucking room, so I can't expect you to trust me much, right?"

What?

"So here's what I've been thinking. Maybe if you go home, and we start dating, you know, like normal people, like you, for example, pretending that I'm not a fucking red flag on two legs, and dumb, and annoying, and problematic..."

I try to refrain from rocking. But this is too much. He says too many incompatible things to understand them all at the same time. His words are conflicting with themselves or with the contents of my head, and I can't follow which is which. Full syntax error on all levels. Why does he do this to me? I just forgot a fucking name!

"Do you want me to go?" I ask him to find a fixed point in the confusion.

"No. That's the last thing I want, baby. But if you need to—"

"Do you know what I need, Mint? Like, seriously."

"What?" he asks, looking me deep in the eyes, showing some apprehension.

"To use your body as a boxing bag."

He doesn't ask questions. He just stands up and spreads his hands.

"Are you feeling better, baby?" he asks ten minutes later, kissing my hurting knuckles, one after another.

"Yes. It's so much better than rocking."

"I bet it is." He's grinning like a Cheshire cat. "You hit quite well, baby. Much better than I expected. You use your body, too, to an extent, and that's rare. And you'll get even better with proper practice."

"What practice?"

"You said it was better than rocking," he answers as if it's understood. "And I like it much more, too. It feels like I'm taking part in it, being with you, you know, not just watching you."

I close my eyes, and I lean against him. He puts his arms around me, taking a deep breath.

"I might sound annoying," he says after a long silence, "but I can't—"

"Mary."

"What? How did you—"

"Can we skip this part?"

"Are you—"

"This one, too. Yes, it's my real name."

I can feel Mint's smile shining through my closed eyelids. It feels as if the lights were turned up in a dark room.

"It really fits you," he says. "It's so pure, powerful, and ancient."

"Yeah. And motherly."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Nothing." I rub my nose against his chest. "Absolutely nothing."

"Okay. About you, going home—"

"I still haven't found the formula for you, Mint."

"Exactly," he says, clearing his throat. "So I guess I must keep you kidnapped for a few more days. Your presence is crucial. Imperative, even. Tactically. Oh, and paramount. That's the word I was looking for."

"Right. You don't have another choice than to force me to stay, I guess."

"I don't, do I?" he asks, kissing my forehead. "And you have no means to make me change my mind."

"You never cared to check my bag, right? My phone hasn't been charged in ages, but I have a gun. A gun you gave me. So that I can protect myself."

"Against me, among others," he says, planting kisses on my neck. "How fitting. Okay, you can break free, then, as a last resort. Everything's all right, then."

"Almost. We still need to re-negotiate sleeping."

"I thought you've been sleeping well lately," he says. "You know, spooning."

"Spoon? There is no spoon. In your case, it's a garlic press, rather, sticking to kitchen utensils."

"Ah, okay. Shall I sleep on the ground, then?"

"Yes, please."

"After sex?" he inquires.

"Definitely after sex."

"Not instead, then. Good to know."

"Definitely not instead," I affirm.

"I like to sleep on the floor. Easy life is making me too soft, anyway."

"Soft? You don't feel soft, Mint."

"Well, when you're rummaging in my pants, I'm not."

"Definitely not."

"What's on your mind, baby?" he asks, smirking.

"That I'm going to sleep twelve hours straight tonight," I answer honestly.

I'm not even surprised when he flips me over, pinning me to the bed for a second, then rolling on his back, making me straddle him.

"After. Not instead."