The words come out just as flat and just as certain. For a second we stare at each other. Neither moving. Neither backing down. Then something shifts. Not in me. In him. Subtle, but there. The same shift I felt earlier. When he chose, not instinct, a decision.
He steps back and lowers himself slowly against the wall. My chest tightens. Then I drop down in front of him. This time he doesn’t stop me, and suddenly the tunnel feels even smaller. The danger is there. Still waiting. But for the first time since we ran, we stop. And everything that follows is going to matter.
The moment I touch him, he goes still. Holding himself like every part of him is waiting to see what I’ll do. I don’t hesitate. Not now. Not after everything that just happened. I press my fingers lightly against his side, finding the edge of the wound. He exhales, slow and controlled, but I feel the tension underneath it.
“It’s not deep,” I murmur, more for myself than for him as I shift closer, angling to see better in the low light filtering through the cracks above. Blood has already started to slow. That’s good, but the wound is open and raw. And it’s in a place that will keep pulling every time he moves.
“You’re going to reopen it if we don’t deal with it,” I add, glancing up at him briefly.
He’s watching, silent, but tracking. There’s not an absence of intensity, but more like he’s focused somewhere else.
“I will not move unnecessarily,” he says.
I cannot keep myself from scoffing because that’s not the point.
“You don’t get to decide that alone anymore,” I answer, softer but no less certain.
Because I know he will. He won’t stop even if it hurts. Even if it’s killing him. But on the other hand, he did stop. For me. If not, he wouldn’t be sitting here, letting me do this.
That thought steadies me as I tear a strip from the inner lining of my blouse, the fabric rough and dirty, but it’s what I have to work with.
“Hold still,” I say, even though he already is.
I press the cloth gently against the wound. He doesn’t flinch, but his breathing changes enough that I notice.
I brush my fingers against his skin as I shift the cloth, tightening and securing it as best I can in the limited space. The contact lingers longer than it needs to while neither of us pulls away. The memory of a few minutes ago sits just under the surface, not gone, not even faded.
Waiting.
My pulse picks up.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I say quietly, tying the fabric in place, thinking about the kiss. About his touch. About… all of it.
“You chose to,” he says, his gaze sharpening.
“You believe it was a choice?”
There’s something in the way he says it that is not dismissive or argumentative. More like he’s trying to understand.
“Yes.”
I don’t hesitate, because I’ve seen the difference now.
“Before—maybe it wasn’t,” I continue, meeting his eyes. “Maybe that was… whatever they did to you.” His jaw tightens slightly at that. I keep going. “But you stopped.”
That’s the part that matters.
“That wasn’t them.” Silence stretches between us, but it’s not empty. It’s full. Very full. He watches like he’s taking the words apart, examining them, deciding what to do with them. “Both.”
The word is quiet, but I don’t understand it.
“Both what?”
“The impulse.” He doesn’t look away. “Constructed.” A beat. “And mine.”
I blink, thinking that through. He seems to mean that this isn’t just damage. This isn’t just programming. This is him. All of it.
“I hoped so,” I say softly, frowning. “No, I thought so.”
