I didn't sleep.
I hadn't, really, since arriving here. But tonight, it was different.
The sterile walls of my room—too white, too symmetrical—no longer felt unfamiliar. Two days here had already etched their cold sterility into the back of my skull. I could name the scuff mark near the baseboard, the faint buzzing of the vent above the bed, the way the sheets always smelled faintly of antiseptic and something sweeter underneath—like synthetic lavender.
But familiarity didn't bring comfort.
I sat hunched over the edge of the bed, arms folded tightly over my knees, staring at the blank wall across from me. Somewhere, behind it, cameras were probably recording. Probably had been, ever since I returned from the interaction room.
The session had ended hours ago.
And I still couldn't shake his face.
Not the beauty of it—though that haunted me too—but the moment I left. The second I'd turned away and walked out, faster than I should've, letting panic do what logic wouldn't. I'd barely registered the sound of the door clicking shut behind me. But I remembered the way his eyes followed me.
Not confused. Not angry.
Just… a flicker of something.
Hurt.
Or the ghost of it, blooming across his features like a cloud drifting too close to the sun.
Gods.
I dragged my hands through my hair, gritting my teeth.
I didn't even say goodbye. Didn't explain.
He didn't understand. Of course he didn't. He was engineered not to question. Not to resist. But something in him still felt it—felt that abrupt shift in my body language, the way I recoiled like I was the one who'd been burned. The way I'd left without a word, like he'd done something wrong.
He hadn't.
I had.
I squeezed my eyes shut, heart beating a strange rhythm between guilt and something else I couldn't name.
He'd looked at me like I was important. Like I was safe. Like I was his.
But what if I wasn't?
What if I never could be?
"Why did you run?" I imagined him asking. Voice soft. Curious. Not accusing—he wouldn't know how.
But the question still cleaved through me like a blade.
Why had I run?
Because of the bond? Because of how raw it felt, sitting that close to him, inhaling that scent—soft and clean and something just his underneath it all?
Because the moment I touched his hair, I forgot what the hell I was even doing there?
Because he was beautiful and breakable and mine in a place where nothing was supposed to belong to anyone?
I covered my face with both hands.
"Stupid," I muttered. "Stupid, stupid—"
Nyx was quiet in my head. No commentary. No claws scraping against the inside of my ribs. Just… quiet.
Even she didn't know what to do with this.
I looked at the chair near the corner of the room—same one I'd left my jacket draped over earlier that day. The sight of it made me think of his posture, the way he'd sat across from me with perfect stillness, like he'd been placed there intentionally, like a statue in a museum that wasn't allowed to move.
No one had taught him what to do with silence. With uncertainty. And I'd walked out and left him to sit in it.
I bit the inside of my cheek, hard enough to taste blood.
He probably hadn't moved after I left. Just blinked. Sat there. Waited.
Like a good boy.
Like they taught him to be.
I curled my fingers into the mattress, trying to ground myself, but it didn't work.
It was too much.
His face.
His expression.
That softness, breaking ever so slightly under the weight of confusion he didn't know how to name.
It was the most emotion I'd seen on him.
And I caused it.
He was made to be obedient. Blank. Beautiful. That was the script they shoved into his blood and bones. But somewhere in the cracks, something real was starting to grow.
And I crushed it.
Not with cruelty. Not with malice.
But with fear.
And I hated myself for it.
"I'll fix it," I whispered, voice hoarse.
Him?
Myself?
The moon?
It didn't matter.
I'd go back. Tomorrow, I'd return to that awful room with its sleek lines and silent cameras and try again. I'd talk. Gently. I'd make sure he knew it wasn't him. I didn't know how—but I'd try.
Because even if they wanted him to be a doll in a glass case, he was more than that now.
He was mine.
And that meant I had a responsibility.
Not just to protect him—but to see him.
Really see him.
Even when the rest of this place refused to.
I slid under the covers, curling onto my side as the sterile ceiling loomed above me. My eyes burned, but I refused to cry.
There was too much work to be done.
And tomorrow… I'd start making it right.