“It doesn’t matter,” he says.
Before he can speak, I push away from the table. “What do you mean it doesn’t matter? There’s nothing else. What else could they use against me?” My voice is practically at a yell now. “What TV shows I stream? W-What places I call the most for takeout? What are they going to do with that?”
Antonio’s hand closes around my forearm before I can work myself into a full spiral.
“Elsa,” he says calmly. “Breathe.”
I yank in a breath that feels like it sticks in my throat.
“More,” he says and stands behind me. He puts his hand on my chest. “Right here. Breathe.”
His palm sits warm over my sternum, and his other arm bands around my waist to hold me back against him.
“In,” he murmurs against my hair. “Slowly.”
I force air into my lungs, and his hand rises with it.
“Out,” he says. “Again.”
He stays just like that, directing me to breathe until the hitching breaths ease. When my panic attack is finally under control, he doesn’t let me go. And I don’t ask him to.
“Sorry,” I whisper.
“Don’t,” he says immediately. “Don’t apologize for having a normal reaction to something insane.”
I close my eyes for a second and let my weight sink into him, hating how good it feels and needing it anyway.
“You’re okay,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you. I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”
He says it like it’s a fact, and it helps ease the fear eating me up inside.
“Okay,” I manage. “Okay.”
“Good,” he murmurs, and his mouth brushes my hair—not a kiss, not quite, just the faintest touch of breath and heat. “Stay with me.”
I nod once, eyes still closed, and when I open them again, the room comes back into focus in pieces—the laptop screen, the email, the ordinary kitchen that suddenly isn’t ordinary.
“Tell me the rest of it,” I say.
“I’m not sure—” he starts.
“Tell me,” I say. “I won’t freak out again. I promise.”
His arm tightens around my waist a fraction, then eases.
“It’s not just the information that’s currently on your phone,” he says. “It’s the programs they can access. Like location services. The microphone. Your camera.”
My camera. So, even if I don’t have nudes… if I leave my phone somewhere in sight while I shower…
“They can turn my camera on?” I ask. “Won’t it show or alert mesomehow?”
“They can. On your laptop too,” he says quietly. “You might notice or you might not.”
My stomach turns.
“Newer phones have indicators,” he adds. “A little light, a dot, something that tells you the camera or mic is active. But if they’re good, there are ways around the obvious, or they don’t need it on for long. A second is enough. A screenshot is enough. An audio clip is enough.”
I swallow hard. “So they could… listen.”