I don’t move my hand away.
She sleeps on, unaware. I watch color slowly return to her cheeks, watch her breathing settle into that steady four-and-six rhythm.
Time drags by. I’ve checked her pulse seven times in the past hour.
There’s no reason. Her breathing is steady now. Color improving. By any measure, she’s stable.
Yet here I sit, fingertips pressed to her wrist again, counting beats I already know are strong.
This is not rational.
I should be planning. Determining our next move. Instead, I’m monitoring the exact rhythm of her heartbeat like it’s information I’ll need to survive.
Perhaps it is.
The thought unsettles me because I don’t know where it comes from. Then again, most of my thoughts come from some unrecognizable place since…
Since what?
My mind refuses to cooperate.
Outside, the rain passes. Smoke curls upward from the fire, carrying a metallic scent I recognize but can’t place. Blood on a blade left too long. Old iron.
I breathe it anyway. Let it anchor me.
Every sound feels painfully loud. Each drip from the cave mouth. Each exhale from her lungs. My pulse, too fast for rest.
Her expression twitches—some dream I can’t follow. She looks like someone who laughs easily. Or did, before the machine fell from the sky and broke her into pieces that I’m still learning to tend.
“Tiger,” she says, her eyes fluttering briefly, unfocused. “Tiger!”
“Rest. You’re safe,” I tell her, smoothing a hand over her forehead. Her skin is soft, like silk. Tension eases from her. Her breath settles once more. I lean back against the wall and continue my vigil.
Color spreads across the horizon through the cave mouth. Dawn or firelight reflected off distant clouds; I can’t tell which.
She sleeps. Her breathing fills the cave with proof that someone survived this.
I remain, back against cold stone, eyes fixed on that wavering line where night hasn’t quite released its hold. But my attention keeps drifting back.
To the way her hand curls into wool. To the faint flush returning. To odd blue strands catching firelight.
I tell myself I’m watching for signs of distress. Monitoring recovery.
But truth sits heavier.
I don’t know how to look away.
Perhaps it’s because she’s the most peculiar female I have ever encountered.
Or maybe it’s something else. That she’s the first human connection I’ve had since this all began.
The fire pops once. Water drips somewhere deep, counting seconds I can’t measure. Her hand shifts again—this time fingers brushing mine where they rest on the wool beside her.
The contact jolts through me. Brief. Accidental. She doesn’t wake.
I should pull back.
I don’t.
