“It said- or proposed- or whatever- that the human soul weights 21 grams. That a doctor watched as people died, and weighed them before and after, to see if their weight changed. When they died.”

He groans. It runs through you like a shiver. His hands tug at the hem of your shirt, and you lift your arms so he can pull it off.

“It was flawed,” You manage, as his hands run along the newly exposed skin, “But some people accepted it as fact anyway. When the paper was published. And another flawed- oh, God- another flawed paper, from around the same time…”

He hums a response as his hands work at your belt. It’s so hard to focus when he’s touching you like this. His fingers, thin and light, his breath on your neck, his hips pushing against yours so you can feel how much he wants you. The wall scratches the back of your skull.

“Another study?” Kimblee’s fingers pause, and you realise, suddenly, the exchange he expects.

“Flawed.” You remind him, breathless. He starts on your belt again.

“Tell me.”

“Less flawed than the first,” You pull the tie from his hair, let it fall free around his face. When you pull at the root, his moan hisses into your collarbone, “It said we were all made up of two elements, working together – or against. Depending on the person. The brain. They govern us. The unconscious and the conscious. The instinct and the rational. Did you read that one?”

“When it was published.” The buckle of your belt clicks open, hitting your thigh, “I believe, at the time, a third element was hypothesised?”

“Yes,” You breathe, “The middle of the two. The moral compass. They can all work in tandem, together, or-”

You lose your train of thought as he lifts you, arms beneath your legs as he kicks the door open. All you can do is cling to him, vain hope, as his fingers press into the small of your back and his teeth tease against your ear.

“Carry on.” He says, then drops you onto the bed. You ignore the command, rising instead to push his coat from his shoulders. His shirt creases beneath your hands, and he bats them impatiently away.

“Come on.” You rest your cheek on his sternum, and he yanks you back by your hair.

“Carry on. Or?”

You realise, after a few seconds, that its where you left off.

“Or they oppose,” You finish, and hook your fingers beneath your waistband. He works his buttons open casually, a vast contract to your speed in kicking off your trousers, “But I don’t see it like that.”

He hums again, and lets his shirt drop to the floor. You let yourself fall back onto your elbows as he sets a knee between your legs. His weight against you is encompassing, compressing. The end stage of a cycle.

“I don’t think of it- it’s a binary star, to me. The two sides of a soul orbiting a central mass.”

“By central mass, you mean the person?”

“No, the moral. A binary of the conscious and unconscious, trapped, circling. Always opposing.” His hands flit across your thighs, pale moths exploring, “Like Nemesis.”

“Back to our hypothetical?” You can hear his amusement. One finger slides into you, and you sink your nails into his shoulder.

“Always.”

As a reward, he pushes in another finger. You gasp, and his smile widens.

“Tell me again?”

As if he needs to ask.

“Nemesis,” Kimblee’s body rests atop yours, a neuron of weight, “is a star thought to exist in a binary with Earth. Both of us, circling the sun, on opposite sides. Hidden from each other. And every so often…”

He likes this part; you brace yourself for impact.

“Every so often, the Earth undergoes a periodic mass extinction. And the theory blames Nemesis. As it collapses, as it gains weight and gravity… As it…”

His fingers rock in and out of you, a slow, never-ending drag of friction. Your leg twists over his hips, and he bites at your neck.

“As it collapses, it pulls,” You find your words with great difficulty, as heat winds tight and low in your stomach. His fingers keep that steady, slow pace, “Pulls in comets to kill us all.”

“Incredible. Should it exist.”

For that, you dig your heel into his spine. He hisses. His eyes, dark, reflect the moonlight.

“It exists.”

“Is that so?” His fingers stop inside you. You can feel them there, crooked gently but doing no more.

“Don’t be an ass.”

His smile could light fires.