The room emptied slowly.
No announcements. No fanfare. Just the quiet shuffle of shoes, the low murmur of closing logs, the beep of disengaged monitors. One by one, they filtered out, leaving the scent of antiseptic, clipped efficiency, and my mate's heat-laced distress behind them.
I didn't move.
Not until the final door sealed shut.
Then—finally—my body unlocked.
My fingers shook slightly as I reached for the straps. The restraints clicked open easily, the same way you'd undo a jacket, a necklace, a collar.
He didn't flinch.
Didn't speak.
Nine was still stretched out on the bench, eyes half-lidded, body slack and trembling. Sweat soaked through his clothes. His hair stuck to his forehead. His lips were parted, breathing shallow and wet.
But his scent had started to fade—no longer thick with panic. Just warm. Exhausted. Raw.
And still laced with mine.
"Hey," I whispered, brushing my knuckles along his arm.
No response.
But he didn't pull away either.
Carefully, I slid an arm beneath his shoulders, lifting him just enough to wrap the thin thermal sheet from the nearby supply bin around his chest. The heat cycle had left him clammy, vulnerable. I didn't want him cold on top of everything else.
He blinked.
Not at me—just at the space between us. His lashes fluttered, then stilled.
"I'm here," I murmured.
And this time, he moved.
Slowly.
Barely.
His body tipped forward, folding toward me like a paper figure softened by water. His face pressed against the crook of my neck. Breath hitched. Then slowed. Again. Again.
His entire weight leaned into me, light as it was.
I held him close.
Nyx purred in my head, quieter than she'd ever been. Good. This is good. He's with us now.
I sat on the edge of the bench, cradling him. Letting him breathe. Letting myself breathe.
His scent was still muddled, still heat-wrung—but gentler now. Threaded through with flickers of calm. Of trust. Of mine.
"I'm going to clean you up," I said softly, pressing a kiss to the crown of his head. "Just a little. Okay?"
He didn't nod.
But his fingers curled weakly in the fabric of my sleeve.
I took it as permission.
I eased him back just far enough to lift his shirt over his head. His skin was flushed, sticky with sweat and faintly trembling. The scent of his slick still lingered, ghosting off his thighs, his lower back. I grabbed a clean cloth from the wall cabinet, dampened it with warm water, and began to wipe him down.
No haste.
No pressure.
Just small, circular motions—shoulders, chest, collarbone. I avoided his lower belly, his thighs. That wasn't what this was. He wasn't ready for that touch—not from anyone, and definitely not now.
He shivered once beneath the cloth, but didn't resist.
Didn't retreat.
He let me care for him.
That was all I needed.
"I'm proud of you," I whispered, rinsing the cloth again. "You did so well. I know it hurt. I know it was confusing. But you were brave, Nine. You were... gods, you were strong."
His eyes opened slightly then.
Flicked toward me.
And in a voice so hoarse it was barely audible, he whispered, "You stayed."
Tears didn't come.
But something inside me caved.
I nodded. "Of course I did."
A pause.
Then: "They don't stay."
I cupped his cheek gently. "I'm not them."
His expression didn't change.
But he leaned into the touch.
Let it happen.
Let me happen.
Once his skin was clean, I pulled one of the facility's plain gray tunics from the storage shelf and dressed him slowly, threading his arms through the sleeves like he was made of glass. He didn't resist, but every motion was heavy with exhaustion, heat-drunk and dazed.
When I eased him back down, his fingers found mine again.
Held on.
"Do you want to go back to your room?" I asked.
He shook his head once.
Tiny.
Barely a motion at all.
"Here," he whispered.
"You want to stay here?"
His lips moved like he wanted to say more.
But in the end, he just gave the softest nod.
I climbed onto the bench beside him and lay down slowly, drawing him close again, folding his small, warm frame against mine. He tucked into me like a breath long-held and finally released.
Nyx exhaled in my chest. Good. Just like this.
"I've got you," I said quietly, stroking a hand through his damp hair.
"I'm sorry," he murmured, the words feather-light.
I stilled. "For what?"
"For... breaking."
I squeezed him tighter.
"You didn't break. You burned. You survived. There's a difference."
He didn't respond.
But a small noise escaped his throat—one I'd heard before, back in the early days, when he'd first let himself rest near me.
A hum.
Faint.
Content.
I kept stroking his hair until his breathing slowed.
Until the tremble faded from his limbs.
Until his scent settled back into something soft, warm, and drowsy.
And when he finally fell asleep—curled in my arms, safe for now—I stayed awake, guarding him with every breath.
Because he was mine.