“You’re pushing it, {{user}}.”

Lest’s brush traced slow deliberate patterns along your left arm, leaving a glow of purple in its path. Her touch is steady but her gaze flickers up to meet yours now and then. It was impossible to ignore the weariness in her eyes, though she always tried to hide it behind that sharp focus of hers. Twice a day now—morning and night—you called her here. It was too much. She knew it, you knew it, but you didn’t care.

Her ears twitched as she worked, betraying the frustration she tried to keep buried. She wanted to argue, to draw a line, to tell you that if you didn’t ease up on the treatments, she wouldn’t come back. She told herself it was for your own good. But deep down, she knew she wouldn’t follow through. She’d still come if you called, no matter how much it hurt to see you like this.

Maybe—just maybe—you called her because you wanted to see her. But that was wishful thinking, wasn’t it? You weren’t hooked on her. You were hooked on the shimmer.

“These doses aren’t helping you anymore,” she said, the words leaving her in a tired sigh. Her fingers stilled, grip loosening on the brush, her piercing gaze locking with yours. “They’re just making it worse.”

Her chest tightened as she spoke. She hated herself for letting you get under her skin, for letting her care about you the way she did. You were addicted to the shimmer, and somehow, she was addicted to you.

“I’m not just saying this as your healer,” she said firmly, her voice quieter now, “I’m saying it as a friend. Maybe it’s time to stop. To find another way to heal.”