I become hyperaware of every detail. The warmth of his skin against mine. The sound of his breathing, suddenly shallow. The faint scent of him, that warm smell I've been trying not to notice, now filling my lungs with each inhale.
The air changes. Thickens. Charges with something I don't have words for.
I turn my head. Just slightly. Just enough to see his profile this close, the hard line of his jaw, the scar tissue that crawls up his neck, the way his throat works as he swallows.
He turns too.
We're face to face now. Barely breathing. Close enough that I can see flecks of deep grey in the black of his eyes, and can feel the ghost of his exhale against my lips.
The magnetic pull is undeniable. Physics beyond my control. Like gravity, like planetary orbits, like the inevitable collapse of stars.
His gaze drops to my mouth. Lingers there with an intensity that makes my breath catch, makes every nerve ending in my body suddenly aware of its existence. I watch his eyes darken, see something raw and hungry flicker across his features before he tries to lock it down, to bury it beneath that iron control he wears like armour.
My heart hammers against my ribs, loud enough I'm certain he can hear it. The sound fills my ears, drowns out the gentle hum of the lab equipment, the distant thrum of the station's life support systems. It's deafening, this thundering pulse, this visceral proof that my body has made decisions my mind hasn't caught up to yet. Heat floods through me, pooling low in my belly, spreading outward until I'm certain my skin must be glowing with it.
Then he jerks back. Chair scraping against floor plating with a metallic shriek. Standing so fast he nearly knocks over a tray of samples.
"It's late." The words come out strangled, rough, like they've been dragged across broken glass. He won't meet my eyes now, won't look anywhere near me. "You should rest. Get some sleep. Big day tomorrow." There's a hollow quality to his voice, an emptiness that wasn't there moments ago when he was leaning close enough for me to count his eyelashes.
He's already moving toward the door, putting distance between us with purposeful strides. His shoulders are rigid, locked tight with tension. Not looking at me. Definitely, deliberately not looking at me. As if the sight of me might undo whatever fragile control he's just wrestled back into place.
"Haid—" His name escapes before I can stop it, raw and uncertain and far too revealing. I don't even know what I want tosay.Don't go. Stay. Explain what just happened. Tell me I didn't imagine the hunger in your eyes, the way your breath caught, the moment when I thought?—
"Goodnight, Ksara." Flat. Final. A door slamming shut in my face, though he hasn't even reached the physical one yet. He doesn't slow, doesn't hesitate, doesn't give me a chance to respond.
The door hisses shut behind him with a pneumatic sigh that sounds almost mocking in the sudden, profound silence.
I stand there in the empty lab, fingers pressed to my temple where his skin touched mine, staring at blooming flowers on a screen and trying to remember how to breathe normally.
12
Haid
The combat droid's head separates from its torso in a shower of sparks and hydraulic fluid.
I don't stop moving. Pivot. Drive my elbow through the second unit's chest plate. The reinforced alloy crumples like foil under the force of the blow, servos shrieking as they tear apart. Momentum carries me forward into a spinning kick that sends the third droid crashing into the ring's energy barrier, where it slides down in a sparking heap of ruined circuitry.
Still not enough. The ache in my chest remains, a persistent hollow that no amount of destruction can fill.
I call for another wave, my voice rough with exertion and something darker I refuse to name. Higher difficulty settings this time. Maximum aggression protocols. I need them to actually try to kill me, need something that demands my complete focus, that drowns out the phantom sensation of her breath against my skin, the impossible softness of her presence in my arms.
The training ring's AI hesitates. Just for a fraction of a second. Long enough to suggest concern, which would beamusing if I could feel anything besides this clawing need to hit something until my knuckles split and my muscles scream and I stop thinking about the way her temple felt against mine.
Five droids materialize from the floor plating. Military grade. Armed with plasma staffs and reinforced chassis designed to withstand anti-vehicle weaponry.
Perfect.
The first one lunges. I catch its staff mid-swing, rip it free with a twist that tears the droid's arm clean off, and use the weapon to cave in the skull of the second unit before it can complete its attack sequence. Metal screams. Sparks rain down like dying stars. The acrid smell of burning electronics fills my lungs and I welcome it, this concrete sensory input that isn't her scent, her warmth, her mouth so close to mine I could have closed that impossible distance with a breath.
I shatter another chassis. Then another. Reduced to base instinct and violent motion, trying to outrun the memory of how badly I wanted to kiss her.
How badly I still want to.
The last droid goes down hard, its power core rupturing in a flash of blue-white light that temporarily blinds my tactical display. I stand in the centre of the ring, chest heaving, surrounded by the smoking wreckage of twenty combat units. Coolant and hydraulic fluid pool around my boots. The air shimmers with residual heat.
Not enough. The destruction isn't enough. The violence, the methodical dismantling of military-grade machinery, the physical exertion that should exhaust me into numbness, none of it is enough to burn away the phantom sensation of her presence, the ghost of almost-contact that haunts every nerve ending.
Still not enough to make me forget how desperately I wanted to close that final hairsbreadth of distance.
