"How long?"
"Six hours." I don't need to check the chronometer. I know exactly how long she's been unconscious. Every minute of it. "You collapsed in the infirmary. I brought you here."
Silence. She’s watching me. Dissecting my responses, looking for cracks in the armor. Smart. Too smart. Most people take me at face value, accept the image I project and never look deeper.
She's not most people.
"The children?" Her voice gains strength. Urgency. She tries to sit up and I turn, hand already moving to press her back down before conscious thought approves the action.
"Don't." The command comes out sharp. I gentle my tone. Soften the edges. "They're fine. All of them. Minor injuries, nothing critical. Because of you." My hand rests on her shoulder, palm flat against the thermal blanket, keeping her horizontal through pressure alone. "Because you turned yourself into a living shield and nearly killed yourself in the process."
Her jaw sets. Stubborn. Defiant. "I saved them."
"You could have died." The words rip out of me, serrated edges I can't quite file down. My fingers tighten on her shoulder.Not enough to hurt but enough to emphasize. To make her understand the magnitude of what she risked. "You pushed too far too fast with powers you barely understand. No training, no preparation, just raw instinct and stupid heroism. If you'd burned out completely?—"
I stop. Bite down on the rest of that sentence. Because finishing it means admitting things I'm not ready to voice. Means acknowledging that the thought of her dying puts a cold fist around my heart and squeezes until I can't breathe.
She holds my gaze. Doesn't flinch. Doesn't look away. "I saved them," she repeats, slower now, each word deliberate. A challenge. "Would you have preferred I let them die?"
No. Yes. I don't know. The honest answer tangles in my throat, too complicated to articulate. Would I trade their lives for hers? In a heartbeat. Without hesitation. But saying that out loud makes me the monster everyone already thinks I am. The warlord who values his assets over innocents. The calculating bastard who weighs souls on scales and makes choices no one should have to make.
Instead I say nothing. Let the silence stretch between us, heavy with unspoken truths.
My hand still rests on her shoulder. I notice that now. Notice the warmth of her seeping through the blanket and my gauntlet, the rise and fall of her breathing beneath my palm, the fragility of flesh and bone beneath armor designed to crush and kill.
I pull away. Too fast. Too obvious. Put distance between us because proximity feels dangerous right now. Like standing too close to an airlock with faulty seals.
"Your vitals are stable." I focus on the diagnostic panel again. Read numbers I already know by heart. "Core temperature normalized. Synaptic activity within acceptable parameters. You should make a full recovery within twenty-four hours."
"That's not what I asked."
"It's what you need to know." I input commands, authorize the nutrient drip, anything to keep my hands busy and my attention diverted from the woman behind me. "The med-tech will check on you hourly. If you experience any unusual symptoms, report them immediately."
"Haid."
I freeze. Something in her tone. Something soft and dangerous that makes my designation sound less like a name and more like an incantation.
"Look at me."
I don't want to. Know on some instinctive level that turning around means crossing a threshold I can't uncross. That meeting her eyes right now, in this moment, with my defenses still cracked from sleep and fear and the lingering image of her collapsing in my arms, will change something fundamental.
But I'm not a coward. Never have been. So I turn.
She's propped up on one elbow now, blanket sliding down to pool at her waist. The medical gown they dressed her in hangs loose on her frame, collar gaping to reveal the hollow of her throat, the ridge of her collarbone, skin that looks impossibly soft in the harsh clinical lighting.
I keep my eyes firmly locked on her face. Not daring to let my gaze wander lower, to trace the elegant line of her throat or the delicate architecture of her collarbones. Safer here. Marginally safer, though even that's debatable when those dark eyes of hers hold such depth, such quiet knowing.
"Thank you." The words emerge soft as breath, barely more than a whisper in the sterile quiet of the med bay. But there's weight to them. Sincerity that hits like a physical thing. "For staying. For being here when I woke up."
My throat constricts. Muscles seize like someone's wrapped a fist around my windpipe and squeezed. I swallow hard, once, twice, fighting to force words past the sudden obstructionlodged somewhere behind my sternum. "I needed to ensure you survived. You're valuable." The statement comes out clipped. Professional. Exactly what protocol demands. "Your abilities make you an asset to this station. To the mission."
Something shifts in her expression. Not hurt, precisely. More like she's heard this song before, knows all the verses, can predict exactly where the melody's heading.
"Is that all?" She asks gently. No accusation in the question, no demand. Just quiet curiosity, an invitation I could decline if I wanted to. If I had the sense to.
"What else would there be?" I hear the defensive edge creep into my voice even as I'm speaking. I know it gives away more than silence would have. But the words are already out, hanging in the recycled air between us like an admission I didn't mean to make.
She studies me. I watch her process my deflection, see the moment she decides not to push. A small mercy I don't deserve.
