“I will watch,” he said again, and something in his tone must have conveyed his meaning, because her expression shifted. He would watch over her. Guard her sleep as she had guarded his.
“I don’t—” She started to protest, then stopped. Her gaze moved to the small bunk, then to the chair, then to the floor where he sat. “You take the bunk,” she said finally. “You’re still healing.”
“I am healed enough.” It was true. His wounds had closed with a speed that still surprised him, flesh and scale knitting together as if eager to repair the damage. The ache remained, but it was manageable. “You have given much. Take rest.”
“And where will you sleep? That chair can barely hold a standard human, let alone…” She gestured at the size of him.
“Floor is adequate.”
“The floor is metal and freezing and there’s barely room for your wings.”
She wasn’t wrong. The dwelling was small even for her size, and he had learned quickly that moving carelessly meant knocking into equipment and walls. Even with his wings folded tight against his back, they added bulk that made the space feel even more cramped.
“Then I will not sleep,” he said. “I will keep watch. You rest.”
Her jaw tightened in the stubborn expression he was learning to recognize. “That’s ridiculous. You need rest too.”
“I need less than you.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know.” He held her gaze. “My kind… we can go long. Without sleep, without food. It is how we were…” The words slipped away from him, leaving only impressions. Designed. Made. Shaped for endurance.
“How you were what?”
He shook his head. “I do not remember. Only that I know this truth. I can watch while you rest.”
They stared at each other in a contest of wills that he sensed could last until dawn. She was stubborn, this small female. Fierce in her independence, and determined to neither give nor take more than she must. But she was also exhausted. He could see it in the shadows beneath her eyes, the slight tremor in her hands that she tried to hide, the way she kept catching herself before her head could droop.
“We could share,” he said quietly. “As before. There is room enough for two, if we are…” He searched for the word. “Close.”
The red he was beginning to find immensely appealing immediately flooded her face, and he watched her struggle between practicality and whatever fear or embarrassment was holding her back.
“That’s not… I can’t just…”
“You slept well before.” He kept his voice calm and non-threatening.
“I was exhausted?—”
“You are exhausted now.”
“It’s not the same.”
“Why not?”
The question seemed to catch her off guard. Her mouth worked for a moment, searching for an answer that wouldn’t come. He waited, patient as the ice he had emerged from, giving her time to find her way through whatever maze her thoughts had become.
“Because,” she finally said, and then stopped.
“Because you are afraid,” he finished for her. Not an accusation, but an observation. “Not of me. Of… something else.”
Her eyes met his, and he saw the truth there, raw and unguarded for just a moment before she shuttered it away. She wasn’t afraid of him. She was afraid of the way she had felt in his arms. Afraid of the safety, the warmth, and the inexplicable rightness of it. Afraid of needing something she had spent years convincing herself she didn’t want.
He understood. The same fear lived in him, coiled around his heart like a serpent. To want was to risk. To need was to open oneself to loss. And he had lost so much already…
“Jaz.” He said her name softly, and watched her eyes refocus on him. “I will not take what is not given. If you say no, I will sleep here.” He touched the floor. “I will not… push.”
Push.That was the right word. He could feel it.
