Ifeelit.
The way her shoulders tense, the breath she doesn’t take.
“It’s alright,” she lies, voice level. “You’re in a controlled facility. You’ve suffered neural and physical trauma. Try not to move.”
I ignore her.
“What the hell is this?” My voice is hoarse, rough. “Why you? Whyhere?”
“Commander—”
“Don’t,” I snap. “Don’t call me that.”
She swallows, just once. That jawline, still sharp. That little scar on her temple. Same as before.
“I watched you die,” I say.
“You nearly did.”
I shake my head, and it sends fire down my spine. “No. You died. At Luria.”
“I survived.” Her voice is quieter now.
“You ran.”
That lands. She flinches. Barely — but I’m trained to see movement, and hers screams guilt.
I remember the evac alarms, the flames, the ceiling caving in. I remember her hand in mine — and then empty air.
I remember waking up months later with my mind in pieces and her name on my lips.
“You left me,” I whisper.
“That wasn’t—” Her voice breaks off. She turns away, adjusts something on the console. Pretending to work. Hiding her face.
“You left me to die.”
“Stop,” she snaps, whirling back. “You don’t get to do that. You don’t get toblameme. You think I wanted any of this?”
“I don’t know what you wanted,” I growl. “I don’t know who you are anymore.”
Her expression shatters for a second. Then she’s all steel again.
“We’re not here to relive old ghosts,” she says. “You’re a patient. I’m your doctor. That’s all.”
Bullshit.
The air between us hums with all the things we’re not saying.
Her eyes are wet. She blinks too fast.
I breathe through my teeth. “You’re not just my doctor. Don’t insult either of us.”
She turns away. “I need to check your prosthetic interface.”
“Touch me, and I swear?—”
“You’ll what? Break your own neck trying to stand?”
