Traci's response—the soft sound of paper sliding under her door.
Helena picks it up. Quiet laugh that tightens my gut. "You're welcome. Goodnight, Traci."
More footsteps. Helena heading back toward the infirmary. Pausing outside my door.
I open it before she can knock.
She's standing there in comfortable clothes, hair down around her shoulders, looking less like a doctor and more like a woman who's exhausted from managing everyone's trauma. Seeing her like this—unguarded, real, tired—hits harder than watching her operate with professional armor in place.
"You said we could talk," she says. "Still good for that?"
I should say no. Should maintain distance. Should remember that getting close to people creates vulnerabilities I can't afford.
But standing here looking at her, I realize the vulnerability already exists. Has existed since the federal meeting when our eyes met and held.
"Yeah," I hear myself say. "Main room. Give me a few minutes?"
"I'll be there."
She heads down the hall. I watch until she disappears into the infirmary.
Then I close the door and pull on a clean shirt.
Because letting Helena in means exposing damage I've kept buried for four years. Means admitting that isolation didn't fix me, just postponed dealing with the wreckage. Means risking connection with someone who makes me want things I stopped believing I deserved.
But I'm already compromised. I have been since the moment she looked at me and saw past the tactical exterior to the man underneath.
The conversation waiting in the main room isn't about whether to let her in.
I'm already letting her in, already cracked open.
Now I just have to survive what happens next.
