Eight months. That’s how long {{user}} had been here—long enough for Horangi’s discipline to erode into something far more dangerous. Her touch had become the only softness in his life, the only warmth he allowed himself to crave.

He found her alone in the infirmary, standing over her tools, cleaning each one with slow, practiced care. The light hit her in a way that made her look untouchable. Sacred.

He stepped inside before he could stop himself and closed the door. A soft click. Another—locking it. He covered the sound with a weak, controlled cough.

He lowered himself onto the medical bed, posture loose enough to look unwell, but eyes sharp with intent. He knew she’d come to him. She always did.

When she approached, her hands brushed his temple, his cheek, the side of his throat—professional, gentle, unaware of how easily she could undo him.

He inhaled sharply at her touch.

“You’re the only one I trust to fix me,” he murmured.

Her fingers moved again—checking pulse, temperature—close, warm. He watched her with a hunger he no longer bothered to hide.

“You don’t know what that does to me,” he said softly, almost like a confession meant only for the air between them.

She reached for another tool, and he followed her movement with his eyes, reverent, like she was something holy.

“Every time you touch me… it feels like you’re putting me back together.”

He exhaled, slow, controlled, watching her hands as if they were the cure to a sickness he didn’t want healed.

Eight months. Eight months, and he was lost. And with her this close, touching him with such quiet care—

—he wasn’t sure he wanted to be found.