I left the room, so I wouldn’t be compelled to look at her face.
In the hallway, I sank down against the wall, drawing my knees up, elbows braced against them, hands covering my eyes as if I could press the world back into order by force alone.
I had endured wars, executions, betrayals that spanned centuries. I had been hunted, bound, drowned in darkness.
None of it compared to her collapsing in my arms.
None of it compared to knowing why.
How had I come to this? I had slept through empires rising and falling, untouched by time—only to wake into a worldwhere one woman’s soft laugh, one stubborn crease between her brows, one whispered “I don’t feel well” could unmake me completely.
And now she believed I regretted her waking me, that I regretted my place in her life.
The lie tasted like ash in my mouth.
I pressed my forehead to my knees. My chest felt carved out, hollow.
I had wanted freedom. Instead, I found her. And now she was slipping through my fingers.
Because of me.
Because of this bond.
Because I had no idea how to save her. Every second that I failed, she drifted closer to something I could not bear to name.
I clenched my fists until my nails bit skin.
She wanted answers. She wanted honesty.
But if I loved her—and God help me, I did—then the cruelest truth was the only one I could not give her: I was killing her, and I had no idea how to stop it.
I felt her presence before I saw her.
“Nadia,” I murmured without lifting my head.
She knelt in front of me, IV still attached, and leaned closer. “Contact?”
I nodded.
She didn’t hesitate. She wheeled her IV closer and settled into my lap like she’d done it a hundred times. Her warmth slid through me, quieting the frantic burn beneath my ribs. My entire body stilled, like someone had placed a hand on the beast clawing the inside of my skull and told it to lie down.
Her palms came to my face, gentle but unwavering.
“Look at me.”
I didn’t want to, but I obeyed. Her eyes held mine with unnerving clarity—no fear, no flinching, only that fierce, stubborn tenderness she wielded like a blade.
“You didn’t make my life worse,” she said. “Quite the opposite.”
My throat tightened.
“I’ve been doing my own healing this summer,” she went on, voice soft and sure. “You aren’t healing me. I’m doing that. But you keep proving over and over that I am enough. You reinforce the idea that I’m worthy. You co-regulate with me without even trying. And I’ll be grateful for that for the rest of my life, no matter how this ends up between us.”
Her thumb stroked my cheek.
“I’m so glad I woke you.”
Co-regulating. Another of her new words. To me, it felt like keeping pace with another heartbeat until both learned the same rhythm.
