I practically sprinted to my room.
Sleep refused to come. I lay in bed staring at the ceiling until well past midnight, my mind refusing to shut down. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Riven's hands and forearms and shoulders and that quiet, assessing stare across the kitchen island.
Eventually, I gave up and climbed out of bed, padding back to the kitchen to make chamomile tea, hoping it would calm the chaos in my head.
The kitchen was dark except for ambient city light filtering through the windows. I switched on the small light above the stove and filled the kettle, trying to move quietly.
I turned to find Riven in the doorway wearing gray sweatpants and a fitted t-shirt that clung to his chest in ways that absolutely didn’t help my current situation.
Stop it, Mireya. Get a grip.
“Sorry,” I said quickly. “Did I wake you?”
“No,” he said as he stepped inside. “I could not sleep.” He reached for another mug. “Are you making tea?”
“Yeah.”
“Mind if I join you?” he asked, already pulling down a second tea bag.
“It's your kitchen,” I said with a shrug.
“It's yours too,” he corrected gently. "For now.”
When the water boiled, we poured and waited for the tea to steep. Then we ended up seated across from each other at the kitchen island, cradling warm mugs between our hands.
“Emma's doing really well,” I said, defaulting to safe professional territory. “All her vitals have been consistently normal.”
“Good,” he said. He wrapped both hands around his mug. “Thank you for taking such good care of her.”
“It's my job,” I said automatically.
He was quiet for a moment, looking down at his tea. "Why did you become a nurse?" he asked.
“My mom got sick when I was sixteen,” I started. “She had pneumonia. The nurses were kind and skilled and I wanted to do that for other families too.” I drank my tea and stared at the steam.
I exhaled. “That’s not the whole truth, though.”
He waited without interrupting. He didn’t push. He let the quiet fill the space until I filled it instead.
“My dad left when I was sixteen,” I said. “He walked out one day and never came back. My mom was left with two kids and no savings.” My voice stayed steady at first. “I became the parent overnight. I made sure Lyra got to school, handled money, learned which bills could be delayed and how to stretch groceries for weeks.”
My throat tightened but the words kept flowing. “I needed a job that paid well enough to take care of everyone. Nursing made sense. Good pay, stable work, and always in demand. So I became the strong one. The one who held everything together. The one who didn’t need anything because needing things meant failing the people who depended on me.”
My voice shook. “And I'm so tired, Riven.” My voice cracked. “I'm tired of holding everything. I'm tired of being the solution to everyone else's problems. I'm tired of fixing everything while I'm drowning.”
Tears escaped before I could stop them. I wiped them away with my sleeve, angry at myself for crying at all. “I just want torest,” I whispered. “I want to smell flowers and take walks and not worry about rent or medical bills or whether my mom can afford her treatments. And saying that makes me feel selfish. It makes me feel like a horrible person because I'm supposed to be strong.”
“You’re not a bad person,” Riven said quietly, his voice cutting through my spiral.
I looked up through blurred vision. His gray eyes held a warmth that felt like a steady hand on a wound.
“You're not bad for being tired,” he continued. “You're not bad for wanting rest. You're not bad for needing help. None of that makes you weak or selfish.”
“Then what does it make me?” I asked, the question emerging as a broken whisper.
"Human," he said simply. "Just human."
The word struck me square in the chest, stealing my breath.
