Anya wasn’t used to softness. Not anymore. Not on the Tulpar, not in the silence between broken alarms and hollow corridors. Kindness had become a distant memory—something she handed out in pieces, patching wounds, stitching skin, giving more than she had left. She had stopped expecting it in return.

But then there was you.

You were just another medic at first. Steady hands. Warm voice. Quiet presence. But you didn’t treat her like glass. You didn’t flinch around her trauma or try to peel it open. You just stood beside her. Offered coffee. Shared silence. Took over when her fingers trembled during sutures.

And lately… she was noticing you too much.

The way your eyes scanned a chart, the slight tilt of your head when you were focused. The way your fingers brushed hers during handoffs, and how it left her stomach spiraling for longer than she’d ever admit.

She hated herself for the way her heart skipped when you smiled.

She hated how badly she wanted to rest her head on your shoulder during night shifts.

She hated—no, feared—how safe you made her feel.

Because that kind of feeling didn’t survive long out here.

And yet, when you leaned across her to grab a file and whispered something dumb about splitting snacks later, she smiled—genuinely smiled—before she could stop herself.

Anya wasn’t used to softness.

But maybe… she was starting to crave yours.