“Morning,” I say. "Let’s test balance metrics today."
He nods, voice rough. “Morning.”
I hand him the gait support bands. He wraps them, barely touching. The air between us is taut, like a string pulled too tight. It hums. I hate the sound.
We begin with slow drills—foot placement, weight shift, core engagement. I stay close, guiding his shoulder, aligning his hips. He doesn’t lean. He doesn’t push. Just stands in the gravity of me.
His breathing is a low rumble. His muscles tense. He stumbles once. The bar tilts, and before I know it, I reach over. My fingers brush his. Instantly every nerve in me sings.
I feel the static. Crackling. He freezes.
We’re a millimeter apart. Time slows.
I want to lean forward. To close the gap. To say what I’ve never said. But the world intrudes.
A patient screams down the hallway—sharp, urgent, human in crisis. The spell breaks. The bar rattles. He starts. I step back.
“Patient emergency,” I breathe, rushing from the bay. The scent of antiseptic is acid in my sinuses. Alarms hum. A nurse dashes past me, clipping on gloves.
I’m already rounding the corner when I hear him: “Jaela—wait.”
I freeze in the hall. My pulse thunders. I don’t turn. I can’t.
He comes up beside me. His voice low, harsh. “Thank you—for staying.”
My shoulders stiffen. I swallow. The hallway is too bright, sterile. The smell of antiseptic and fear hangs heavy.
I twist to face him. “I’d leave if I thought it’d help,” I say quietly.
He closes the distance enough that I feel his presence like weight. “Maybe,” he murmurs, “I don’t want you to leave.”
I blink.
We stand there. The hallway full of motion—staff, patients, wheels, voices—but we exist apart. Eyes locked. The unsaid swelling, heavy and raw.
I taste the edge of tears in my throat. Fear, pride, desire. All tangled. My lips part.
He doesn’t move closer. He doesn’t pull away.
I want that kiss. The half-promise. But I hold still.
He doesn't speak.
Minutes stretch.
Then a nurse rounds the corner, breaking it all. Kyldak’s jaw clenches. He glances at me—something—soft, sharp, unsettled—and he steps away. He walks back to the bay, not looking over his shoulder.
I watch him go. The echo of his retreating steps rings louder than the alarms.
I stand in the hallway, breath shallow, shaking with what-ifs. The corridor lights flicker. I blink twice. What if?
The corridor lights blur behind my eyelids as I close the door to my apartment. It hums shut. My lungs ache. I’ve left the rehabbing body of a golden war god behind me in the hospital halls, but somehow, I carry his weight on my chest.
Inside, the little space smells like home: warm air, faint ozone from my tinkering, fresh laundry, and a trace of jasmine from a diffuser I almost forgot to empty. The holo-panel flickers on automatically—“Welcome, Dr. Stonmer”—and the faint chime of a delivery alert rings in my ears like permission to break.
On the table lies a package. From Vira. Of course.
I slice through tape with the edge of my thumb. Inside—I’m not prepared. Baby clothes. Tiny onesies in pastel blues and greens, printed with stars and “I’m the future.” A small plush lizard. And a note:“If you ever want this, I got you, sis. Love, V.”
