Every time the scanner passes over my skin, her scent wraps tighter around me.
“You’re running low on suppressants,” she murmurs.
“I don’t need them.”
“You’re running on adrenaline and stubbornness. That’s not the same thing.”
“Always lecturing.”
“Always ignoring me.”
“Not possible,” I say quietly.
That makes her flinch. The scanner stutters mid-pass.
“Rynn.”
“Don’t,” she says. “Don’t use my name like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you still have a right to.”
Her voice cracks at the end. Just enough to break something open in me.
“I thought you were gone,” I say, softer now. “I buried you in my head. Every mission after that was just noise.”
“You should’ve left me buried,” she whispers.
“Too late.”
She sets the scanner down too hard; the metal clatters. “You need rest.”
“What I need is the truth.”
“Not tonight.”
“When, then?”
She looks away. “When you’re strong enough to handle it.”
I almost tell her that nothing could hurt worse than not knowing.
But I see the exhaustion in her shoulders and stop myself.
She’s breaking in slow motion, and I’m too damn angry at the universe to let her fall apart. Not yet.
So I lean back against the cot, feigning compliance. “You always did like to control the pace.”
“Go to sleep, Vael.”
“Yes, doctor.”
Her mouth twitches — the ghost of a smile she doesn’t want to give me. Then she turns and walks toward the door.
I watch her go, every step measured, precise, deliberate.
She’s always been like that — calculating her exits.
