Not in that restless, half-alert, trauma-trained way I’ve seen in too many detainees. This is full-body surrender. One arm curled beneath her head, the other loose across her waist. The blanket’s twisted near her ankles. Her brow furrows, even in rest, like part of her still refuses to unclench.
She shouldn’t be sleeping.
Not here.
Not now.
And yet... something in me loosens at the sight. Not relief. Not exactly. Something deeper. Older.
I remain near the door. Still as architecture.
I watch her breathe.
Her shoulders rise and fall in a rhythm that does not match any surveillance pattern I’ve been trained to monitor. I catalog it anyway. It matters, even if I don’t know why.
The curve of her spine.
The bare patch of skin at her collarbone, visible where the neckline of her shirt has slipped askew.
The way her lips part on the inhale.
I should not be looking.
But I am.
She stirs.
It’s not dramatic. No gasp. No flinch. Just a slow roll of her head against the pillow and the quiet pressure of her awareness surfacing.
She doesn’t open her eyes immediately.
When she does, she doesn’t startle.
She just says, groggy and raspy: “Didn’t expect you back.”
“I was expected,” I reply.
“Not by me.”
She stretches once, arms overhead, spine arched. I turn my gaze away before I linger.
“You always stand like that,” she mutters, eyes still half-lidded. “Like you’re ready to run.”
I glance back at her.
“Even when you’re not moving,” she adds, voice softer now. “It’s in your shoulders.”
I do not respond. I don’t know how.
She sees me. Not tactically. Not through my posture or stats. She sees through theconstructof me. And it shakes something loose.
“I trained for readiness,” I offer eventually.
“No, that’s not it.” She sits up slowly, blanket pooling around her hips. “You’re bracing.”
I blink. “For what?”
Her eyes meet mine. “That’s the question, isn’t it?”
