The lights hummed low in the clinic, set to dawn levels—soft and gold-tinged, like the world was trying to be gentle for once.

  Mia stirred, she felt better, more herself, and her fingers brushed coarse bnket fabric, There was warmth – fingers curled around hers, anchoring her.

  She felt him before she saw him. "Elian...?" Her voice cracked in the middle of his name, dry and unsure.

  "Easy." His voice was low, soft, velvet pulled tight around something fragile. "You're okay."

  Mia blinked through the fuzz, her eyes adjusting in slow degrees. And there he was – Elian, seated beside the bed, one hand clutching hers, the other carding gently through her hair. His eyes looked like he hadn't slept in days, but beneath the exhaustion, there was relief. Honest. Bone-deep.

  "You're safe," he said again, grounding the words with the weight of truth. "We got you out. You're in the clinic."

  She closed her eyes again, just for a breath, just to see if the nightmare returned. It didn't. "I thought I was gonna die in there," she whispered.

  "I know." He didn't lie, didn't try to say otherwise. Just brushed the sweat-matted hair from her forehead, fingers so careful it almost broke her.

  "I couldn't take that," he said, even softer. There was a stillness then, not the sterile stillness of clinics and equipment, but something real and living between them. Warm. Heavy. Unspoken.

  Mia felt it bloom in her chest – not fear, not guilt, but terrible, beautiful, aching want. She pulled him down into a slow, tentative kiss, just once, just to see if she still could, if he'd let her. He let her.

  But when her hand drifted sleepily beneath the hem of his shirt, he stilled. He didn't pull away, just paused. "Are you sure?" he asked.

  She nodded. "Yes. But..." Her voice faltered, her head resting against his chest now, curled against him like a half-burnt prayer. "But what about Dane?"

  That stopped him, but not in the way she feared. He smiled, small and crooked, like someone who had carried the answer for a long time. "Oh, Mia..." he said, and ughed – not mocking or cruel, but fond and knowing. "One day you'll see Dane the way I do."

  She blinked up at him. "What does that mean?"

  He leaned in, his thumb brushing her cheek like it was the most natural thing. "It means," he said, "Dane would love this. Love seeing this."

  Her eyes widened. "Are you saying—"

  "I'm saying," Elian murmured, a slow curl of amusement in his voice, "his kink is to watch. And then... join."

  A beat. She stared, mouth open, then groaned, dragging the bnket over her face. "I cannot with this town."

  Elian chuckled and gently tugged the bnket back down. "You'll get used to it."

  "No, I won't."

  "Yes, you will."

  Elian kissed her deeper now, reverent in the way he held her like something precious, like she wasn't still half-broken. She felt it all.

  And beneath her skin— A flicker. Faint, like a pulse echoing from far away. Not words, not quite. But a quiet sense of approval. Asrell, still resting, still fading in and out, but there. A warm shape of yes behind her ribs.

  Her fingers curled into the fabric of Elian's shirt, tugging him closer. He followed her willingly, shifting so his weight hovered above her without pressing down. He kept his touch light, easy, but she could feel the restraint in it—how much he was holding back.

  She guided his hand under her sleep shirt, and he paused again, eyes scanning her face.

  Still asking.

  "Mia?"

  "Yes," she whispered. "Yes, I want this."

  Elian exhaled, almost a sound of relief, and let his hand explore—fingers gliding over her waist, the dip of her stomach, the ridges of old scars and fresh bruises. He didn't flinch. He didn't hesitate. He just... traced her like a map he intended to memorize.

  She arched into him, her breath catching as his palm cupped her breast, slow and reverent, like he was offering thanks. He kissed her neck, then lower, each press of his lips grounding her further into the safety of now.

  "Tell me if I need to stop," he murmured against her skin.

  "You won't," she replied, threading her fingers into his hair. "I'll tell you what I want."

  And she did.

  Her hands were bolder now, skimming beneath his shirt, feeling the warmth of him, the strength threaded through his frame. She helped him peel it off, then let her fingers roam—over the slope of his shoulder, the faint scars that mirrored hers in smaller echoes.

  He kissed her again, slower this time, coaxing rather than ciming. His thumb brushed over her nipple and she gasped softly into his mouth, the sound swallowed in the tangle of breath and lips and want.

  When he slipped her shirt over her head, he did it like a ritual—not hurried, not greedy. He looked at her like the sight of her undid him.

  "You're beautiful," he said simply. Not to ftter, not to impress. It was truth.

  She pulled him back down to her, skin to skin now, warmth blooming where their bodies met. The monitor hummed beside them, steady and quiet, the only witness to their tangled limbs and growing heat.

  Elian slid his hand between her thighs, testing, gentle. She gasped—half surprise, half need. Her hips moved with him, slow at first, then more insistently.

  "Still okay?" he asked, voice rougher now, like gravel under honey.

  "More than okay," she whispered, arching into his touch.

  He watched her fall apart the first time—watched the way her head tilted back, her lips parted, her whole body tightening around the pressure and release. He didn't rush her, didn't chase his own pleasure, just held her through it, murmuring praise she barely caught over the rush in her ears.

  And when she pulled him fully to her, fingers curled tight in his shoulder, guiding him between her thighs with no hesitation—he followed.

  Slow. So slow.

  Their bodies met like a promise long deyed. A breathless, reverent joining, each thrust careful, intentional, steady.

  Mia clung to him, not in fear, but in fierce need—not to be possessed, but to be met. And Elian did. Every movement said: I see you. I'm here.

  It didn't st forever. But it didn't need to.

  They unraveled together, quiet and locked in a rhythm only they knew. No performance. No spectacle. Just sweat-slick skin, soft moans, and the soft gasp of her name on his lips when the world split open.

  Their breaths tangled in the quiet afterward, the only sound in the room the soft hum of the monitor and the slowing beat of their hearts.

  Elian didn't move right away. He stayed there, wrapped around her like a shield, his lips pressed to her temple, breathing her in.

  "You okay?" he murmured after a while, his voice husky but grounded.

  Mia nodded slowly against his shoulder. "Yeah." A beat. "That was..."

  "Yeah," he echoed, a zy smile against her hair. "It was."

  He eased back, just enough to look at her, to check her eyes, her expression—every inch of her. He wasn't looking for regret. He was looking for pain. For hesitation.

  But there was none.

  She looked flushed and wrecked and warm and here, and he kissed her again, slow and unhurried, just because he could.

  Then he got up carefully, whispering, "Don't move," and grabbed a clean cloth and water from the side sink. He returned to her like a tide, gentle and steady.

  "Let me," he said, and she let him.

  He cleaned her with the same hands he used in surgery—focused, but tender. His touch respectful, his movements never hurried. She watched him in silence, lips parted slightly, unsure if it was exhaustion or awe.

  "You're not fragile," he said, as if reading her mind, "but I'll still be gentle."

  She blinked at him, something in her throat catching.

  He pulled a fresh bnket over her, smoothed her hair away from her damp skin, and y down beside her—fully clothed now, but still close, still steady.

  His fingers found hers again, just like before.

  "I can stay," he said softly. "If you want."

  She turned her head slightly, just enough to press her lips to his knuckles. "I do."

  He didn't say another word. Just curled his arm beneath her, and let her rest against his chest, his hand spyed wide over her back—right where Asrell slept.

  And when her breathing slowed again, and the silence turned golden, he whispered something into her hair:

  "You don't have to do any of this alone anymore."

  Internal Echo - Asrell awakened

  It started as a ripple.

  Then a wave.

  At first, I didn't understand what was happening. The sensations bled through our bond—heat and friction, breath tangled with breath, the press of skin on skin. I should've pulled back. I'd been trying to heal.

  But something in me reached.

  She didn't block me. She couldn't.

  And I felt it.

  Not just the act—the aftermath. The stillness where she let herself soften. Where Elian held her with such care, it transformed her grief into something like peace.

  She chooses this.

  She wants this.

  He brings her peace... and pleasure.

  It is remarkable.

  I did not know a body could feel such things and remain whole.

  I did not know the sharp ache of fear could be rewritten—smoothed away beneath gentler hands.

  I did not know touch could become worship.

  My kind never allowed for this. We chose logic over sensation, control over connection. But this? This is what I was searching for all those cycles ago, drowning in foreign substances just to feel something real.

  And now—through her—I have.

  And yet, I do not envy.

  I long.

  Not to repce him. Not to compete.

  But to understand. To offer this.

  To be a part of her life not only in defense or healing... but in joy.

  I wonder—can a body be made to give that? Can I?

  For her?

  I still have the only one like it. Vassreln-crafted. Built for strength. For shielding her.

  But perhaps... that was only the beginning.

  Perhaps I can craft something more. A form not just for battle, but for tenderness.

  A body made to cherish her.

  To know the softness she deserves.

  I will try.

  For Mia, I will learn this.