Three days had passed since the cemetery. The sting of Lireya's words had dulled, and the bruising memory of Thane's hands around her throat no longer had sharp edges—just scarred outlines she could think around. Mia had thrown herself back into work, because work made sense. Emotions didn't.

  She'd cleared space in the workshop, stacking her mother's keepsakes and old storage boxes into the tunnel hallways. They stood like sentinels of a past she wasn't ready to let go of—but for now, they were out of the way.

  Her project dominated the center of the room: scattered parts arranged like an altar, surrounded by a circle of sketchpads, open datapads, and spools of wiring. The metal table was cluttered, but not chaotic. It had a purpose.

  She'd left the shelter doors open. The breeze after the windstorm was unusually clean, stirring up only zy, harmless swirls of sand. It was as if the nd itself was exhaling after holding its breath for too long.

  Asrell had gone quiet for a while, content to observe through her senses. He didn't understand what she was building—tech and tools weren't in his skillset—but he liked the hum of her focus. Her company.

  He broke the silence. "You have not asked me about my mother yet."

  Mia paused, her fingers stilling over the component she'd been adjusting. "Didn't think you wanted to talk about her."

  "I don't," he said, then corrected, "I didn't. But I've learned things can change. You taught me that."

  She offered a quiet hum, the corner of her mouth twitching—not quite a smile, but an acknowledgment. Her focus returned to the device in her hands.

  "She was... daunting. I tried to live up to her more than once. Her standards, her name. But I am not her." His voice in her mind carried a weight she rarely heard from him—something ancient and resigned.

  "Is that why you stopped trying?" Mia asked, connecting two wires with practiced precision.

  "Yes. That—and my brother." The words hung between them, charged with unspoken history.

  She paused in, looking up at the empty air where she sometimes imagined his presence. "The one who sold you out?"

  He gave a low trill in her mind, like a ripple of water meeting heat. "He was always the favorite. Perfect posture. Perfect reports. Perfect treason." The bitterness in his tone was unmistakable, centuries of resentment distilled into a few words.

  Mia snorted, a rare genuine sound of amusement. "What'd you call him? That word the other day?"

  Asrell made a delighted noise, a shimmer of pleasure that cascaded through her consciousness. "Ghal'vestri. It roughly transtes to..." he paused, thinking, "...leech-bellied ego parasite."

  Mia grinned, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "Elegant."

  "We use it sparingly. Only for the truly wretched," he expined, a princely formality returning to his tone.

  "Guess he earned it," she said, returning to her work with renewed energy.

  "You've used it on him more than I ever dared. I think I like that about you." His admission carried a warmth that settled comfortably between them, like another tool in her workshop—unexpected, but somehow belonging.

  The tickle of his ughter was a surprise—light, strange, and genuine. It rippled through their shared consciousness like water over stones, something she'd never felt from him before. Mia blinked, pausing in her wiring, the soldering iron hovering mid-air as she processed the sensation.

  "Was that a ugh?" Her voice was soft with wonder, as if speaking too loudly might scare the moment away.

  "It was," he said proudly, the princely tone warming with something that felt almost like shyness. "You taught me how."

  Their quiet moment was broken by the unmistakable whir of a drone outside the door. It flew in like it belonged, brushing past the edge of her open shelter door and hovering just inside.

  "You expecting something?" Asrell asked, his voice rippling with curiosity through their connection.

  "Nope." Mia's response was clipped, automatic.

  The drone blinked a soft blue, then projected a tiny hologram that shimmered in the dusty air of the shelter. Elian's face flickered to life—warm, polite, professional, his features rendered in miniature blue light that cast faint shadows across the workbench.

  "Come in for a follow-up," his recorded voice said, tinny but clear. "Let me check that head. Also—I have something for you to fix. Nothing urgent, but I'd appreciate your expertise."

  Mia raised an eyebrow, her interest piqued despite herself. Her fingers tapped absently against the metal workbench, considering.

  "You're going?" Asrell asked, already knowing the answer, a hint of amusement coloring his thoughts.

  "Not for the check-up. But... a fixer job?" The prospect of something to repair, something to focus her hands and mind on, was more tempting than she wanted to admit.

  She grabbed her tool pouch, fingers automatically checking the familiar shapes inside—pliers, micro-drivers, her favorite soldering iron.

  As she slung the pouch over her shoulder, Asrell hummed thoughtfully, the sensation vibrating gently against her consciousness.

  "I like the doctor," he admitted, almost shyly, the princely tone softening into something more vulnerable.

  Mia gnced toward the hovering drone, still suspended patiently by the door. "Yeah? Why?" Her voice held genuine curiosity—Asrell's preferences were still new territory, each one a small revetion.

  "He's kind. And he doesn't flinch when he sees you. He expins things without insult, even when asked questions. Where I come from, asking someone in their field to expin themselves is a challenge—a slight to their knowledge. But him? He didn't see me as a puzzle to dissect. Not even when he realized what I was. He treated me with... respect. As if I mattered, not as a specimen, but as a person."

  Mia's mouth tugged into a faint smile. "High praise from a ghal'vestri's brother."

  He didn't respond right away, but the warm pulse of quiet contentment through their bond was answer enough.

  The clinic smelled faintly of sterilizer and gingerroot tea when Mia arrived. Elian met her with a warm smile, his tone careful and noninvasive. There was no mention of the cemetery or the storm—just a gentle, professional welcome.

  She let him do a quick check of her heartbeat, and he did a quick scan of her eyes, all the while he made light conversation. Mia pyed it cool, brushing off concerns. "There wasn't much to see. Dane overreacted."

  Asrell's voice hummed in her mind, irritated. "Lies. The wound was mine to fix. He deserves to know that."

  She tried to ignore him, but Asrell was not a patient symbiote. He wanted the doctor to know. Finally relenting, she told Elian that Asrell had healed the wound. "It was superficial," she added, making sure to stress the word in a tone designed to annoy Asrell, who had been pestering her since they arrived.

  Lifting the water gss Elian handed her, Mia drank like a creature born of the desert. Elian watched her with that too-careful gaze of his, reading more than she wanted him to. Still, he said nothing.

  "The tool," Elian said, changing gears. He handed her a malfunctioning cauterizer wand, its sleek medical-grade casing marred by a hairline crack. The power indicator flickered erratically, a telltale sign of internal circuitry failure. Mia recognized the model—standard issue in frontier clinics, reliable when working, impossible to repce when broken. Exactly the kind of problem she lived to solve.

  She examined it, muttered something about loose capacitors, and had it fixed in under three minutes. Elian was quietly fascinated, watching her hands move with the kind of certainty that only came from someone who not only knew what they were doing—but understood what they were fixing on a fundamental level.

  "You're faster than the manuals." Elian's voice was soft with admiration, his eyes still tracking the precise movements of her fingers against the metal casing.

  Mia shrugged, sliding the repaired cauterizer back across the examination table. "They're outdated." She didn't mention that she'd memorized the repair sequence for most standard medical equipment when sleep had been impossible and technical manuals were easy to get her hands on. Some skills were best left unexpined.

  He wouldn't say it aloud, but he was fairly sure now—this was their mystery repairer. He had suspected since that night in the clinic when she tried to barter her skills for his medical attention. Now he was certain.

  "Would you like some tea?" he offered gently, his hands moving with practiced ease as he rearranged the medical supplies on the counter.

  "No," she said, watching him work. Then a beat ter, "Food, maybe." Her stomach had been quietly protesting since she'd started the repair, but Mia wasn't one to admit weakness until absolutely necessary.

  He brought her a pte—rolls from Moozy, a sticky, gooey bun she remembered from her childhood. She devoured it, making soft, involuntary noises of pleasure that she didn't seem to notice, but which made Elian smile faintly—more than just amusement, something low and warm stirring beneath his ribcage. He shouldn't have found it attractive. But the way she lost herself in the food, the unguarded pleasure of it, struck him unexpectedly deep. He quickly turned his focus to the stew, unsure if she noticed. He apologized for not having more rolls, but mentioned he had stew warming.

  She nodded, and he brought her a bowl. While she ate, Asrell held a casual conversation in her mind—not his usual commentary, but questions for Elian, voiced through Mia in a tone that could almost be mistaken for her own curiosity. He liked the doctor. Not just tolerated him, but genuinely appreciated his kindness. The way Elian never recoiled, never demanded, never looked at him like a specimen. For a symbiote raised to expect suspicion, it was novel. Elian expined things without condescension. Never once made Asrell feel small, despite knowing exactly what he was.

  It was odd, that kind of respect. Strange. And deeply comforting.

  Elian expined things without condescension. Never once did he make Asrell feel small, despite knowing exactly what he was.

  "He's kind," Asrell said quietly. "Doesn't flinch. Expins things like I'm part of the room."

  "You are," Mia replied silently, distracted by the way the stew coated her tongue, rich and savory against her pate. The warmth spread through her chest, settling into a rare moment of contentment.

  "Not to everyone." A pause. Warm. Comfortable.

  "I like him," Asrell admitted, his mental voice carrying a note of surprise at his own sentiment. It was rare for him to express fondness so pinly, without the protective yers of sarcasm or disdain.

  She raised an eyebrow but didn't respond. Not out loud. It wasn't the worst taste he'd ever had.

  Mia listened, bemused, as Asrell's admiration bled into something warmer, more protective. A fondness he didn't seem to realize he was developing.

  Elian cleared the dishes when she finished, and she let him.

  "Come with me," he said after a while. "Let's do the full check in the back."

  Mia stood, stretching a little. "Gonna scan my soul, too?"

  Elian smiled. "Just your vitals."

  She was about to follow—

  The clinic doors smmed open.

  A group of men stumbled in, carrying one of their own. He was pale and sweating, a makeshift bandage soaked in blood wrapped around his thigh. One man was shouting, another swearing, and the third trying to hold the injured man still as he gritted his teeth against a scream.

  "What happened?" Elian asked, his voice suddenly all business as he crossed the room.

  "Driller drone," one man answered, his voice breathless. "The small kind—they're supposed to shut down on proximity, but this one didn't. His leg got caught. It kept spinning. Wouldn't stop. We had to use scrap metal to beat it off."

  The wounded terraformer groaned, his knuckles white as he clutched at the table. Elian didn't hesitate—he was across the room in seconds, issuing orders, snapping on gloves, clearing the table.

  Mia took a step back, unnoticed in the chaos. As Elian removed the blood-soaked cloth, the wounded man screamed. The leg was mangled—torn open, bone exposed, muscle shredded. Elian didn't flinch. He called for antiseptic, for sedation, for instruments.

  While the clinic was overtaken by the urgency of saving a limb, Mia quietly slipped out the back.

  She had a drone to find. And a drill to fix.

  The clinic was quieter now. The worst of the blood was gone, sterilizer thick in the air again. Elian moved softly through the main room, the only sound the soft hum of the cooling system and the steady beeping of the monitor beside the cot.

  Nico, the injured terraformer, y sleeping beneath a gray bnket, one arm draped loosely over his chest. The surgery had gone better than Elian dared hope—bone set, muscle reconstructed, synthetic weave ced through what couldn't be salvaged. The worst was over, and the best part was that he would walk again, and he wouldn't even have a limp. He would need to wear a brace and give time and rest.

  Elian stood beside the cot for a long moment, watching the subtle rise and fall of Nico's chest. He double-checked the leg dressing, smoothing the edges of the bandage with careful fingers. No swelling, his color looked good, and his vitals were stable.

  "You're lucky," he murmured softly. "But don't make a habit of wrestling drills."

  Nico didn't stir. Elian gave a small, tired smile, then turned away.

  He washed his hands slowly at the sink, the warm water doing little to ease the tension still coiled through his spine. After changing into a clean tunic and scrubbing the blood from beneath his fingernails, he finally moved back to his desk.

  And stopped.

  Two bowls. One pte. A half-finished mug of gingerroot tea that had gone cold.

  A pile of sticky bun wrappers crumpled neatly beside it all, the sugary residue still glistening on the edges of the paper.

  His eyes narrowed, just a little, the corners crinkling with a mixture of frustration and resignation. The quiet of the clinic suddenly felt oppressive rather than peaceful. "Damn it."

  She was gone. Again. Just like every other time he'd told her to rest.

  He swore under his breath—not loudly, not angrily. Just a soft, frustrated exhale that twisted into something else entirely when he picked up the tea mug and found the faint imprint of her lip balm on the rim. He turned it slowly in his hands.

  The door behind him clicked open.

  Boots. Dust. Familiar steps. The particur cadence that belonged to only one person in Avenridge.

  "Doc," came Dane's voice, low and gravelly from the day's work. "Heard you had a situation."

  Elian didn't turn around. He just dropped into his chair, the day catching up all at once as he sank into the seat with a tired exhale. His shoulders slumped forward, the tension of the emergency finally releasing its grip on his spine.

  "Yeah," he said, running a hand over his face. "Terraformer, lower leg. Small drone. Bad bite, but he's all fixed up. He need a lot of rest, take an easy on the leg, and he just have a story to tell. "

  Dane approached the desk, slow and quiet. He eyed the dishes on the table, then frowned at the empty pte with a grim sort of betrayal. His fingers hovered over the ceramic, as if checking to see if it was still warm.

  "Someone ate all the sticky buns?" Dane looked at the pile of empty bun wrappers, counting them with a quick gnce.

  "Mia came in and she was hungry." Dane managed to look even angrier and annoyed.

  Elian snorted, a small smile pying at the corner of his mouth. "You want to fight her for it next time?"

  Dane just made a face, like the betrayal had been personal. Then his gaze sharpened, posture straightening as the casual disappointment transformed into something more alert.

  "She was here?"

  "Yeah," Elian said, voice soft. "Finally got her to come in. Checked her vitals, talked a little. Then Nico came in, gushing blood like a hose and she slipped out the back before I could run the full scan."

  Dane didn't answer at first. He crossed his arms, jaw ticking as he watched Elian for a beat too long.

  "You got feelings for Virelli?"

  Elian didn't try to dodge it. He gave a tired nod. Then let out a short, humorless breath that hung in the sterile clinic air between them.

  "I can't even get her to stay in a room with me for ten minutes unless she's unconscious."

  Dane's brow creased, deep lines forming between his eyebrows that spoke of concern rather than anger. His fingers tightened against his biceps where his arms remained crossed.

  "You know I'm not gonna stand in your way," he said, quiet but firm. "Not when it comes to your work. Not when it comes to your heart, either."

  Elian gnced at him, waiting for the but. His eyes, warm but wary, studied Dane's face for the inevitable qualification.

  Dane didn't make him wait long.

  "But Virelli is still Virelli," he continued. "The town's not ready to forgive her. Hell, I'm not even sure what there is to forgive yet. She was nineteen when that bomb went off. We still got bodies buried because of it. Families still scraping by because of what she did."

  Elian didn't flinch. "She's not dangerous," he said quietly. "Not to anyone but herself." The words carried weight.

  Dane looked at him hard, but didn't press. The silence between them felt charged, filled with unspoken history and the ghosts that still haunted the clinic's walls.

  "She comes back here," he said after a moment, "I won't stop her. But I need you to be careful. Whatever this is between you two... just don't get caught blind. I've seen it happen before."

  He stepped closer instead, reaching out and pcing a steady hand over Elian's. Grounding him. The touch was gentle but firm, a soldier's hand that had learned to heal in its own way.

  "El," he said quietly, eyes meeting his, steady and unwavering. "I know there's more to Virelli's story than what's in those reports. Hell, I've felt it. But you need to proceed with caution."

  Elian didn't speak—just listened, his expression unreadable, the tension in his shoulders betraying the weight of Dane's words.

  "I can protect you from a lot of things," Dane continued, voice barely above a murmur. "But a broken heart? A town turning on you? That's a higher mountain than I know how to climb."

  There was a beat of silence. The clinic's subtle hum filled the space between their breaths.

  Then Elian gave a tired snort. "You're underestimating this town's dependence on my healing tools."

  Dane's mouth twitched. "Oh, I'd never underestimate your tools, Doc."

  Elian groaned, loud and theatrical—but he didn't let go of Dane's hand. The warmth between them eased the heaviness of the moment, a reminder of the bond they'd forged through blood and battle.

  Elian gave a small nod. Not an agreement—just acknowledgment. His eyes carried the weight of someone who'd already made their decision long before the conversation began.

  "I'll be careful," he said. But the quiet in his voice made clear he'd already chosen his course.

  Dane lingered a moment longer, then looked back at the pte. His expression shifted back to the petty annoyance of moments before, a deliberate lightening of the mood.

  "Still pissed about that bun."