"Good."
He sits down beside me, his frame dwarfing mine. His wings unfurl slightly, the membrane stretching before settling around us like a protective barrier.
I take another drink of orange juice.
He watches me with that intense, unblinking stare that should be creepy but somehow isn't.
"You are staring," I say.
"I know."
"It's weird."
"I do not care."
I snort.
"You're impossible."
"I am aware."
I lean back against his chest, letting his warmth seep into my sore muscles.
His arms wrap around my waist, pulling me closer.
We sit there in silence for a long moment, the only sound the faint hum of the clinic's ventilation system and the steady thud of his heartbeat beneath my ear.
It's... nice.
Comfortable.
Safe.
Which is a completely foreign concept for me.
I've spent the last five years in survival mode. Every decision calculated. Every risk weighed. Every dollar stretched as far as it could go.
But this?
This isn't survival.
This is something else entirely.
"Cyprian?" I say quietly.
"Yes?"
"What happens now?"
He's silent for a moment.
Then: "Now I keep you."
I huff a laugh.
"That's not an answer."
"It is the only answer that matters."
