I don't ask permission.
I grab the collar and rip.
The fabric tears easily, the buttons scattering across the heated stone floor. I peel the shirt away from his body, exposing his chest.
And my stomach drops.
His entire torso is gray. Dense. Calcified.
The crystalline amber veins are barely visible beneath the stone, flickering weakly like dying embers.
I can see his heart.
Not literally. But I can see the faint, erratic pulse beneath the calcified skin. The rhythm is wrong. Too fast. Too irregular.
He's running out of time.
I rip off my own hoodie—the premium one I bought last week, the one that actually kept me warm—and toss it aside. I'm left in just my sports bra and leggings, my skin already slick with sweat from the volcanic heat.
I grab the container of oil and pour it directly onto his chest.
The liquid steams on contact, the heat radiating off his calcified skin like a furnace. I don't wait for it to settle. I climb onto the table, swinging my leg over his torso, straddling his lower body.
My knees press into the padded surface on either side of his hips. My thighs bracket his waist.
I lean forward, pressing my palms flat against his chest, and drive my full weight down through my forearms.
The stone doesn't give.
I press harder.
Nothing.
Panic claws at my throat.
This isn't working.
Standard massage protocol is useless. I need more heat. More friction. More contact.
I shift my weight, repositioning my hands over his heart. I can feel it hammering beneath the calcified skin, the rhythm erratic and desperate.
"How long?" I ask, my voice cracking. "How long until you lock completely?"
A grunt. Low. Pained.
"Minutes?" I press harder, using my elbows now, driving the heels of my palms into the dense muscle. "Seconds?"
"Minutes," he manages. His voice is strained, barely audible. "Eight. Maybe less."
Eight minutes.
I have eight minutes to break through stone that's been calcifying for who knows how long.
"Okay," I say, more to myself than to him. "Okay. We can do this."
I shift my weight, repositioning my hands over his shoulders. I can feel the rigid tension in the membrane where his wings connect to his back, the way his body is fighting against the petrification.
I press harder.
