He chuckles. “You wear cruelty like armor.”
“No,” I say, stepping close. “I wear professionalism like armor. Cruelty is just the color I paint it.”
We start the drills. I walk him through balance exercises, basic strength conditioning. He obeys, mostly, with little grumbles and muttered swears in a language I don’t know but absolutely want to learn just so I can yell back.
At some point, we’re moving together—me bracing his back while he shifts weight, him gripping my wrist when his core wobbles. It’s technical. It’s rehab.
But it’s also not.
Because every time I touch him, he stiffens like it matters. LikeImatter. And every time he looks at me, there’s something in his eye that makes my stomach flip.
“Shift right,” I say, brushing his hip. “Engage core.”
“Touch me again and I’ll think you like me.”
I don’t flinch. “If I liked you, I’d be laughing right now.”
“I don’t hear you laughing.”
I bite back the grin and push against his shoulder. “You’re not that funny.”
He shifts wrong. The leg slips.
I react fast—years of training making my arms move before my brain does. I catch him, hard and fast, braced against his chest, his hand grabbing my waist as we stumble together.
He’s warm. So warm.
We’re breathing hard. Inches apart. His scaled chest rising under my palm. His eye locked on mine.
“I don’t need saving,” he growls.
“I didn’t save you,” I murmur. “I stabilized you.”
His gaze drops to my mouth. I feel it like a pulse.
Then I step back. Just a little too quickly. I turn around to grab the next drill, hiding my face.
“Back to work, soldier,” I call over my shoulder.
I hear the smirk in his voice before he says it.
“Yes, Commander.”
And damned if I don’t smile.
There’s a metallic tang in the back of my throat I can’t quite swallow down.
Even after scrubbing my hands, my palms still smell like his sweat. Sharp, earthy, tinged with the faint ozone crackle of power cells and exertion. I’ve worked with plenty of cybernetic patients—hell, I’ve had clients cough blood on me mid-stretch—butnoneof them linger like Kyldak does. Not in the room. Not in my head.
I punch the access panel to my apartment and kick off my shoes like they insulted me. The place is a cramped, boxy rental with exposed conduits and exactly one working vent that sounds like it’s coughing up bolts. But it’s mine. Mostly. The lights hum awake.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I flick on the holoterminal. My sister picks up on the second ring.
“Jaela!” Vira sings, lounging somewhere tropical if the glint of sunlight on her shades is anything to go by. “Still alive? Or have the cyber-vets finally staged a coup?”
I groan and flop onto the couch. “Barely. One of them tried to kill me with his charisma today.”
“Ooooh?” She perks up instantly. “Do tell.”
