I could wake her. I should wake her. My hand hovers over her shoulder.
No. Not shoulder. That is too much.
I touch the stone beside her head instead. Hard. Controlled. Close enough that when I speak, the sound comes low and anchored.
“Sera.”
She flinches, but does not wake. I curl my claws against stone.
“Sera,” I say again, softer.
Her eyes open halfway. Unfocused. Dark with sleep and old hunger. For one breath, she looks at me without armor. It strikes harder than any blow.
“You are shaking,” I say.
Her mouth moves. No words. I hold the water skin where she can see it. Not against her mouth. Not into her hand until she reaches.
“Drink.”
Her gaze drops to it. Confusion flickers. Then shame follows. I hate her shame. I hate it in her more than I hate the black vein, the rhythm, or the open sky.
“I’m fine,” she murmurs.
“No.”
Her eyes close. I should not say it. I say it anyway.
“You are allowed to need water.”
Her lashes lift. Something in her face fractures. Only a hairline crack. Enough to see light behind it. Then she reaches for the skin. Her fingers brush mine. Brief. Accidental. The contact moves through me like ground warning.
She drinks. One mouthful. Then another.
Her hand trembles against the skin. I do not steady it. I want to, but I do not. When she lowers it, she looks more awake. More horrified.
“Did I say something?” she asks.
Yes. Nothing I will use against her.
“No,” I say.
A lie. A chosen one. Her gaze searches my face. She does not believe me. Good. She should not, but she is too tired to cut out the truth.
She caps the water skin and sets it carefully between us. Neutral ground again. Her fingers linger on it.
“I wasn’t hungry,” she says.
Awake. Defensive. Ashamed too. I look at her but do not push or take. I do not make the wound perform.
“I know,” I say.
Her eyes narrow. Anger returning. Armor fitting back into place.
“You just said no.”
“I said you needed water.”
“And food.”
