My heart stutters. Stops. Restarts with uncomfortable force.
She's kissing me back. Not freezing or panicking or pulling away in fear. Actually kissing me—choosing this, choosing me, her body pressed close and her hands on my skin.
I slide my arms around her carefully, giving her every opportunity to change her mind or retreat. She melts into the embrace instead, her fingers threading into my hair while she deepens the kiss with quiet confidence.
Nothing in my life prepared me for this. For Ressa feeling right in my arms, for the way she fits against me like she was designed for this exact position. For the soft sound she makes when I tilt my head to change the angle.
She tastes like trust. Like courage and resilience and choosing vulnerability despite every reason she has to guard herself. Like she's letting me in past walls that were built for survival.
The magnitude of it terrifies me.
I break the kiss slowly, carefully, giving her time to adjust. Her eyes flutter open—brown shot through with amber in the morning light. Her breathing comes slightly quick but steady. No panic in her expression. No fear.
Just wonder.
"Falla," she whispers, my name soft on her lips.
"I shouldn't have—" The words stick in my throat because what shouldn't I have done? Kissed her? Wanted her? Fallen for her somewhere between reflex games and drunken confessions?
"Don't." Her hand tightens in my shirt. "Don't apologize for that."
"You're my patient." That's a lie at this point.
"I'm also a person who just kissed you back." Her expression holds steady, direct and unflinching. "Twice."
Fair point. But the professional ethics I've built my entire practice around scream that this crosses every boundary I'm supposed to maintain.
"Ressa—"
"I wanted to kiss you." The admission comes quiet but certain. "I've been thinking about it since yesterday. Maybe longer."
My heart does complicated acrobatics that have no place in healer anatomy. "You were drunk yesterday."
"I remember enough." Her cheeks flush but she doesn't look away. "I remember feeling safe with you. Trusting you. Wanting... this."
The confession steals my breath. I stand there with her in my arms while morning light creates rainbows in the mist we'veforgotten, and I have no idea how to process what she's telling me.
She wants this. Wants me.
The impossibility of it crashes through every rational thought. Ressa, who can barely tolerate being around orcs, who flinches when males move too quickly near her, who carries trauma like armor—she's choosing to be vulnerable with me.
"I don't want to hurt you," I manage, the words rough and honest. "Or push you past what you're ready for. If this is too much?—"
"You're not pushing." Her thumb brushes along my jaw, the touch impossibly gentle. "You've never pushed. That's why I trust you."
The words lodge somewhere behind my sternum and refuse to dislodge. She trusts me. After everything, despite everything, she's standing here in my arms telling me she trusts me.
I'm completely unprepared for how that feels.
"I'm still your healer," I point out, though my conviction wavers when she's looking at me like that.
"So stop being my healer." The suggestion comes matter-of-fact, like she's considered this already. "I'm mostly healed anyway. The physical injuries are resolved. If you're worried about crossing a line, then we'll take it away.
"Your mental healing?—"
"Is my responsibility." Her expression softens but stays firm. "You've helped me more than you know, Falla. You got me out of that cabin. You helped me work through panic attacks. You made me feel safe when I thought I'd never feel safe around orcs again." She pauses, her voice dropping quieter. "But that doesn't mean I want you as my healer anymore."
My heart hammers hard enough that I'm certain she can feel it. "What do you want?"
