The walk back to Nine's wing felt longer than it should have.
Every hallway was too quiet. Too sterile. The hum of fluorescent lights buzzed above me like static, and with every step, my skin prickled with the awareness of how many cameras lined the walls. They weren't watching out of curiosity anymore. They were watching to see.
What he did. What I did.
How we moved. How we breathed.
I'd made him a subject.
And made myself the scalpel.
The door to his room slid open with a soft hiss, and his scent hit me immediately—muted but still there. Sweet. Faintly warm. Comforting. He was curled on the bed, not asleep but not fully awake either, body tucked inward like a question he didn't know how to ask.
When he saw me, he blinked slowly.
Then his face changed.
Lit up.
He sat up too fast, winced, and immediately tried to pretend he hadn't. His arms wrapped around his middle like a shield, but he didn't look away.
"You came back."
I nodded. "I told you I would."
He didn't speak, but his expression softened. His fingers fidgeted in his lap, twisting the hem of his tunic.
I crossed the room slowly, careful not to startle him.
"How are you feeling?" I asked, crouching in front of him.
He shrugged, then leaned forward slightly, like he wanted to close the distance but wasn't sure if he should.
I answered for him, reaching up to brush his hair back and press a gentle kiss to his temple.
He melted.
Just like that.
Folded into me like he'd been waiting hours to do it. Maybe he had.
His head dropped onto my shoulder, and his arms wrapped around my waist with slow, careful pressure.
I held him.
And hated myself.
Because I knew what I'd done. What I'd said. What I'd promised.
They wouldn't take him away.
Because now, I was part of the leash.
"I missed you," he murmured.
"I missed you too."
His cheek pressed tighter to my collarbone. "They said you were talking to the man in the glass room."
I stiffened.
"They didn't say why," he added quickly. "But I thought maybe you were angry."
I pulled back to look him in the eyes.
"Never at you."
His gaze searched mine.
"You were talking about me."
I didn't answer.
Because I couldn't lie.
Not to his face.
Not directly.
But I reached for his hand. Laced our fingers together.
"I told them you're doing well," I said. "That you're learning quickly. That you're listening to your body. To your instincts."
He tilted his head. "That's... good?"
"It's very good."
His chest rose with something like relief.
Then, after a pause: "I only listen to you."
I bit the inside of my cheek.
He didn't mean it the way it sounded. But he did. In all the ways that mattered.
I leaned forward and kissed his forehead again.
"I know."
And I would make damn sure they knew it too.
Because if they saw that loyalty as useful—if they believed they could use his love instead of punish it—he'd be safer.
Even if I had to pretend it didn't gut me every time I heard him say it.
"You look tired," he whispered.
I laughed, quiet and bitter. "I am."
"You should sleep here."
It wasn't an offer. Not really.
It was a request. A plea.
I knew I shouldn't.
The cameras were still active. The observers were watching for every slip.
But I climbed into bed beside him anyway.
Because screw them.
He curled into my side like he belonged there.
Like I was home.
And for a little while, I let myself believe it too.