The Fear Dissertation // A Jonathan Crane Dark Romance

51

I pause, my fork halfway to my mouth. "You played the cello when you were younger?"

Jonathan makes a small noise of amusement. "Does that surprise you?"

I glance around us. It's Sunday evening and we've spent all weekend in the dark, cosy atmosphere of Jonathan's house. A fire crackles in the hearth, and music plays softly from the gramophone beside the door. I feel so warm here, so safe. Like a deep-rooted happiness that spreads through me. Like this is where I'm meant to be, where I belong. Watching horror movies in the cinema, eating at this table. Or curled up in an armchair in the living room, working on my dissertation while Jonathan reads a novel beside me, his hand resting on my thigh and checking my notes periodically. In his bed, where we lie so close entangled in each other that I forget where his body ends and mine begins, oblivious to any gaps of air separating us.

"I suppose not," I say, finishing the meal and picking up the silk napkin from the table. Then a small mark in the fabric catches my eye. I frown, lying the napkin flat to inspect it.

My name. Embroidered into the corner in cursive.

"When did you do this?" I ask Jonathan, holding it up.

He sips his wine nonchalantly. "I had all your things monogrammed weeks ago."

"Weeks?"

"Yes, Sienna," he says, like he's explaining the obvious to a toddler. "I wanted you to feel welcome here. I thought you'd have seen it on the towels already."

"What else haven't I noticed?" I mutter.

But Jonathan takes my question seriously. "Your stationery's untouched in my office. And I've begun growing tulips in the greenhouse since you said they were your favourite. Once they're fully grown, I'll mist them with fear toxin and have a vase for you in each room."

My eyes widen as he speaks. "Toxin tulips?"

He smiles. "I thought you might appreciate it."

"You're very kind to me, Jonathan," I say quietly.

He says, "You still sound surprised. Even after the Quinzel Interrogation."

I bite back a smile. "I believe words are not binding if they're said under duress."

I don't expect the way his gaze darkens. "You doubt the way I feel about you? You still think it's purely because of our research?"

"I... No, I..." It takes what feels like an eternity to compose myself. "You have to admit, the lines are a little blurred," I finish in a whisper.

I'd intended it to be light-hearted. But there's nothing light about the silence that descends upon the room. The way Jonathan pauses before removing his glasses, and I see a flash of the Scarecrow behind his eyes.

And then it all tumbles out of me. "I'm not pregnant," I say. "I'm a few days late, so I took a test this morning, and... I'm not."

He blinks. Brow furrowing. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because I don't want to disappoint you. And because that means an extra four weeks minimum before we can even begin our research." Tears sting at my eyes. "Nothing's promised. Everything we've done so far could be a waste."

He's quiet. Then he tells me, "Come here."

For someone immune to fear, I feel pretty susceptible as I stand from the table and walk to him. He's indecipherable. Impossible to read. And then he takes me in his arms and pulls me onto his lap, holding me fiercely.

"You could never disappoint me, Sienna. Do you understand?"

"Yes," I murmur, but it's not enough for him.