The almost-smile comes before I can stop it from forming. Her eyes catch on my mouth. The pull between us tightens. Not the bond. Not yet.
Want, braided with danger and with the memory of her mouth. Her knees on either side of me. Her voice saying, I want this. I want more than I know what to do with.
My body knows exactly what to do with wanting. My hearts do not. Both are traitorous.
The machine beneath the pool pulses again, breaking the moment.
Sera turns away first. “We do this quickly.”
“Yes.”
She retrieves the map from my pack one-handed and spreads it across a dry stone shelf. Her fingers move fast. Too fast. Pain tightens her mouth, but she does not stop. I want to tell her to slow. I do not.
She marks the reservoir with hard, efficient strokes. Ridge. Pool. Arch. Anchor site. Black channels. Healthy growth. Possible exitlines. Old district structures. She draws the cavern as if she is cutting a truth into the page so no one can pretend later.
I watch the pool. The eye watches us. At least that is how it feels.
Sera finishes the main marks and tears a thin strip from the map edge, using it to label the broken anchor pouch, the gray thread, and the sample. Proof, organized while the underworld opens its mouth.
Very Sera. Very human. Very fragile. Very terrifying.
“I need the healthy strand,” she says.
“I take it.”
“No, I do. You have anchor burns.”
“Minor.”
“Pain bad?”
“No.”
She narrows her eyes.
“Less than pain bad,” I say.
“Better.”
The healthy growth is close enough to the ridge to reach. A small side strand bright with blue and purple, not rooted in a central cluster. Sera reaches for it, then stops herself before touching.
She looks at me. I offer my knife. She takes it. Careful. That small act should not matter. It does.
She cuts the strand the way she watched me do before. Not too close to the root. Not too much. A tiny piece only. She wraps it in treated cloth and marks it with a fierce little knot.
The strand pulses once in her hand. Blue answers beneath her bandage. She freezes. I step closer.
She lifts her gaze to mine. “Do not.”
I stop. The glow fades. She breathes out.
“So that keeps happening,” she says.
“Yes.”
“I hate that.”
“No,” I say.
