He didn't cling to me that night.
It was the first thing I noticed. The first thing that made my stomach twist.
Usually, the moment we were alone, Nine would press close—bury his face against my chest or shoulder or neck. Anywhere he could feel warmth. Anywhere he could breathe me in. It wasn't a habit. It was instinct. Like I was safety.
Tonight, he sat at the far corner of the bed, legs folded beneath him, hands tucked into his sleeves. Quiet. Still.
And distant.
The light in the room was soft—warm enough to soothe, dim enough to feel private. But he looked like a doll again. Fragile. Empty. A beautiful thing designed to be silent and untouched.
I crossed the room slowly, careful not to startle him.
He didn't look up.
Didn't smile.
Didn't say my name.
I sat beside him without speaking.
We stayed like that for a long while.
The silence hurt more than any of their punishments.
"Are you mad at me?" he asked finally, voice barely audible.
"What?" I blinked. "No. Gods, no."
He still didn't look at me. "Then… why don't you touch me?"
"I didn't want to push you," I said softly. "You seemed like you needed space."
He bit his lip.
"I thought maybe… maybe I made you angry. In the session."
My heart twisted.
"No," I said. "You didn't do anything wrong."
"But you had to punish me."
"I had to pretend," I corrected gently. "Because of the instructor."
He looked at me then. Eyes wide, hopeful—but not like before. This hope was fragile. Fractured.
"Pretend?"
I nodded. "None of that was real. Not the crop. Not my words. I didn't mean them."
"You… smelled like you meant them," he whispered.
Nyx stirred sharply.
I kept my voice calm. "I was afraid. Not of you. For you. That scent wasn't hate. It was grief."
He blinked slowly. Processing.
Then: "You don't think I'm broken?"
The words were soft. So soft they barely existed.
I reached for his hand. Slowly. Gently.
He didn't pull away.
But he didn't grip back either.
"Not even a little," I said.
He nodded, as if he wanted to believe me. But he didn't say anything else.
I lay beside him that night. I didn't hold him. I didn't touch him.
And he didn't reach for me.
He just lay still. Breathing evenly. Eyes open long after he should've been asleep.
Nyx whispered low in my head. You're losing him.
He was quiet the next morning too.
Not shy. Not withdrawn in the usual sense.
Just… muted.
He followed commands. Ate when I offered food. Sat quietly during the morning check-in. But his eyes didn't light up. He didn't press into my touch when I combed through his hair. He didn't lean when I sat beside him.
He was trying to be good.
Trying so hard to do everything right.
And failing in ways no one else would notice.
Only me.
Nyx muttered bitterly, pacing just behind my eyes. They've trained him so well he doesn't even know how to ask for comfort anymore. He thinks stillness is survival.
And maybe it was.
For now.
But not forever.
Not if I could help it.
That afternoon, during our scheduled session, I chose not to run drills. Not to ask him questions. Not to follow any of the sheets they'd given me to review his "progress."
Instead, I sat on the floor with my back to the wall and said, "Come here."
He hesitated for the first time.
Not out of disobedience.
Out of uncertainty.
"I want to be close to you," I added softly.
That made him move.
He crawled to me slowly, like he wasn't sure the rules had really changed.
When he reached me, I opened my arms.
Still, he hovered.
"Is it okay?" he whispered. "Even if I messed up?"
Gods.
I pulled him close.
Held him tighter than I should've.
"You didn't mess up," I said into his hair. "You never mess up. Not with me."
He didn't say anything.
But I felt it.
The moment his body relaxed.
The second his hands clutched at my shirt.
The tiniest sob that slipped out as he buried his face in my neck.
And I knew then—I hadn't lost him.
Not yet.