I'm standing at the supply station, warming the volcanic oil between my palms, and my heart is doing this stupid fluttery thing it has no business doing. The room is already sweltering—the heat lamps are cranked up to their maximum setting, the air thick and heavy with eucalyptus and volcanic minerals. But the heat in my chest has nothing to do with the temperature.
Behind me, I hear the soft rustle of fabric as Cyprian settles onto the reinforced table.
I don't turn around yet.
I need a second to get my shit together.
Because the problem is this: I've spent three weeks mapping every inch of his body. I know the exact placement of every calcified seam. I know which trigger points make his amberveins flare brighter. I know the sound of his breathing when I finally break through a particularly stubborn adhesion—that low, controlled exhale that he tries so hard to keep quiet.
And somewhere along the way, I stopped seeing stone and started seeing him.
The architecture of his shoulders. The precise way his wings fold against his back, the membrane tucked carefully between the bone spurs. The way his slate-gray skin catches the orange glow of the heat lamps, amber veins pulsing faintly beneath the surface like molten rivers trapped under granite.
The sheer impossible size of him.
Seven feet of ancient, brooding intensity stretched out on my table, waiting for my hands.
I take a breath. Turn around.
He's lying face-down in the padded cradle, his arms at his sides, his wings folded tightly against his back. The linen pants sit low on his hips, and I can see the deep groove of his spine, the heavy musculature of his shoulders, the way his body seems to radiate a quiet, controlled power even in stillness.
His amber eyes are closed.
But I know he's aware of every movement I make.
The silence between us is heavy. Charged. It's not uncomfortable, exactly, but it's not professional either. It's something else entirely—something that makes my pulse kick up and my palms sweat despite the volcanic oil coating them.
"Your left shoulder again?" I ask, keeping my voice steady.
"Yes."
His voice is low. Formal. But there's an edge to it tonight—something tighter, more tense.
I walk over to the table, assessing. The calcification is worse this week. I can see it in the way his left wing sits slightly higher than his right, the membrane pulled taut, the bone spurs rigid.There's a visible seam running along the base of his wing joint, a mineral ridge that wasn't there last week.
"You've been working too much again," I say.
"I have responsibilities."
"Yeah, and you're going to have a permanently fused wing joint if you keep this up." I pour more oil into my palms, warming it. "I'm serious, Cyprian. This isn't sustainable."
He doesn't respond.
I sigh. "Alright. This is going to be intense. I need to get deep into the wing anchors, and that means I'm going to need serious leverage."
"Do what you must."
I strip off my hoodie, leaving just my black tank top. The room is too hot for layers, and I'm going to be sweating through this session anyway. I bind my hair up with my pen, securing it in a messy knot at the base of my skull.
And then I climb onto the table.
I've done this before. I've straddled his lower back dozens of times over the past three weeks. It's the only way to get the leverage I need to work on his upper back and wing joints.
But tonight, it feels different.
Tonight, I'm hyperaware of every point of contact.
My thighs press against his sides, the soft skin of my inner legs contrasting sharply with the cold, rigid marble of his spine. I can feel the texture difference—my warmth against his stone. My body heat mingles with his coldness, and I feel the faint give beneath me as I settle my weight.
