"Jorak, put me down. I can walk. I’m a grown man with a doctorate, I can manage a fifteen-foot trek to the bathroom." I say it because I have to. It’s a matter of principle. It’s also a lie.
"No," he says. It’s the kind of blunt, Enigma-grade finality that doesn't leave room for a rebuttal. He carries me across the room, his stride smooth and certain despite the debris of our heat, the discarded pillows and tangled sheets. He kicks the bathroom door open and sets me on the closed lid of the toilet with careful precision.
The light in the bathroom is too bright, too clinical after the soft, hazy shadows of the nest. I shield my eyes, my skin prickling as the cool air hits me. Jorak just turns on the shower, waiting until the steam starts to curl over the top of the glass before he reaches for me again. He strips me of the shirt he put on earlier, his touch lingering on the marks he left on my hips and shoulders.
He lifts me into the stall, the warm water hitting my back like a benediction. I groan, leaning my forehead against the cool tile, letting the heat sink into my aching joints. I expect him to stepback, to give me the privacy I’ve spent thirty-two years guarding like a fortress. Instead, I feel the heavy, solid presence of him stepping in behind me.
He takes the soap, lathering his hands before he begins to wash me. He cleans the slick from my thighs, the salt from my skin, his fingers tracing the curve of my ribs with a tenderness that makes my throat tighten.
"Close your eyes," he murmurs.
His fingers massage my temples, pressing just hard enough to kill the lingering ache of the fever. I lean into him, my back against his chest, listening to the steady, rhythmic thrum of his heart. For a few minutes, the water is the only world that exists.
Then, the silence shifts. I can feel it in the way his touch becomes a little more mechanical, the way his breathing hitches.
"The suppression nodes in District Four are spiking," Jorak says, his voice losing its softness as the soldier comes back to the surface. "Mercer called while you were under. The corruption is spreading toward the university. He’s going to want me in the field by sundown."
I turn in his arms, the water slicking my hair back. I put my hand over his mouth, my fingers still soapy. "Not yet. Please. Just five more minutes where none of that is real. No Mercer. No Black Current. Just... this."
He looks at me, his eyes searching mine, the static of his power flickering just beneath the surface of his skin. Then, he lets out a breath that sounds like a surrender. He laughs, a soft, huffed sound that brushes against my palm, and he nods. He finishes washing me in silence, his touch slow and deliberate, as if he’s trying to memorize the texture of my skin before he has to put his armor back on.
When the water finally runs cold, he wraps me in a towel and carries me to the kitchen. I point out again that I have legs, and again, he ignores me, setting me on the granite counteras if it’s the most natural seat in the world. He’s still naked, water dripping from his hair and down the hard planes of his stomach, but he doesn't seem to care. He’s focused on the fridge, his movements jerky and unfamiliar as he tries to navigate the domesticity of a kitchen that wasn't built for containment.
"I can make eggs," he says, sounding remarkably unsure for a man who can level a city block.
He cracks an egg against the side of a pan with enough force to shatter the shell into a dozen pieces. He glares at the mess like it’s a personal insult.
I can’t help it; a laugh bubbles up in my chest, shaky but real. "You’re a disaster, Jorak Thorn. Step away from the stove before you ruin breakfast."
He grumbles, but he steps back, watching me with a frustrated kind of affection while I find some bread and a jar of mustard. I’m still wrapped in the towel, my feet dangling off the counter, but the normalcy of making a sandwich feels like a life raft. He ends up taking the knife from me and finishing the assembly with intense, silent focus, then holds the sandwich out to me like an offering.
"Eat," he commands.
He stands between my thighs, his hands resting on the counter on either side of me, caging me in. It should feel stifling, but instead, it feels like being held in place before I can drift too far. I take a bite, the flavor of ham and sharp mustard hitting my tongue, and realize just how hollow I’ve felt.
While I eat, he leans in, his nose brushing the sensitive skin of my neck. He’s not biting, just breathing me in, his lips pressing a slow, possessive kiss to the pulse point under my jaw. It’s a reminder. A claim. A way of saying mine without needing the words.
The softness of the morning is a fragile thing, and I know it’s about to break. I can feel the weight of the question I’ve beencarrying since Vesper House, the one that doesn't have a clean mathematical solution. I set the half-finished sandwich down on the counter, my fingers trembling just a little.
"Jorak," I say, my voice small. "Is there a version of this where we aren't just a crisis management strategy? If the nodes stabilize, if Mercer gets what he wants... what happens to us?"
He pulls back just enough to look at me, his face going hard and serious. He doesn't give me a platitude. He doesn't tell me it’ll be fine. He knows the system as well as I do, and he knows that the ESA doesn't keep things they can't use.
"I don’t know what it looks like yet," he says. His thumb brushes my lower lip, gentle enough that it hurts. "But there is one. I’ll make sure there is."
I believe him, which is the scariest part of all. I lean forward, pressing my forehead against his, trying to absorb some of that certainty. His arms come around me, warm and solid, and for a few breaths, I let myself hold on.
The peace shatters when I finally slide off the counter and head toward the bedroom to find clothes. My phone is on the nightstand, its screen glowing with the frantic persistence of the world I tried to lock out. There’s a string of missed calls from the university, but it’s the text from Mira that stops my breath.
I found it. The archive logs from the '94 shift. Asa, you need to get to the library now. I think I know why they flagged your blood.
I stare at the words, the morning’s softness evaporating like mist. The old records. The thing Mira was chasing before my heat took over the library. The reason she looked at me like the ground had opened under both of us.
Behind me, I hear the sharp, discordant chirp of Jorak’s facility-issued comms. He picks it up from the floor, his face darkening as he reads the display. The silence that follows is brittle, the air in the room suddenly tasting of ozone again.
"Mercer," he says, his voice flat. "He knows about the heat and they’ve been outside downstairs for most of it. They just left but now there’s a flare in District Six. They’re sending a transport for me in twenty minutes."
He looks at me, and I see the struggle in his eyes, the feral instinct to stay and cage me, to hide me in the nest until the danger passes, fighting against the reality of the leash he’s worn for ten years. He’s angry. More than angry. He’s vibrating with suppressed violence that makes the lights in the hallway flicker.
