Asa
The fever is gone, but the ghost of it still hums in my marrow.
I wake in the center of the nest we’ve spent the last forty-eight hours destroying, and for a few seconds, I don’t know where the blankets end and I begin.
The air in the room is heavy, saturated with the thick, cloying scent of pear and vanilla tangled in the dark, woodsy bite of black cedar.
I shift, and my body immediately registers the protests of every muscle I own.
I’m sore in places I didn't know had a purpose beyond basic anatomy. My skin feels tight, coated in the salt of dried sweat and the slick, tacky residue of a heat that took everything I had and then asked for more. I’m a wreck.
Jorak is there, braced on one elbow, watching me with a steady, unblinking intensity that makes my heart do a clumsy trip-step.
He looks like he hasn’t closed his eyes once since the world narrowed down to this bed.
There’s a shadow of stubble along his jaw and his eyes are dark, tracking the way my chest rises with a shaky breath.
He looks like a man who has decided that leaving was never an option on the table.
"You're back," he says. His voice is a low rumble that vibrates through the mattress and straight into my spine.
"I think so," I manage. My throat is dry, tasting of whiskey and the metallic afterburn of his Black Current. I try to sit up, but my limbs have the structural integrity of overcooked noodles. The room tilts, the bookshelves on the far wall doing a slow, dizzying dance.
Before I can even think about falling, Jorak’s hands are on me. He doesn't just steady me; he gathers me up like I weigh nothing at all, his arms sliding under my knees and back with a terrifyingly easy strength. I’m suddenly airborne, my head lolling against the hard muscle of his chest.
"Jorak, put me down. I can walk. I’m a grown man with a doctorate, I can manage a fifteen-foot trek to the bathroom." I say it because I have to. It’s a matter of principle. It’s also a lie.
"No," he says. It’s the kind of blunt, Enigma-grade finality that doesn't leave room for a rebuttal.
He carries me across the room, his stride smooth and certain despite the debris of our heat, the discarded pillows and tangled sheets.
He kicks the bathroom door open and sets me on the closed lid of the toilet with careful precision.
The light in the bathroom is too bright, too clinical after the soft, hazy shadows of the nest. I shield my eyes, my skin prickling as the cool air hits me.
Jorak just turns on the shower, waiting until the steam starts to curl over the top of the glass before he reaches for me again.
He strips me of the shirt he put on earlier, his touch lingering on the marks he left on my hips and shoulders.
He lifts me into the stall, the warm water hitting my back like a benediction.
I groan, leaning my forehead against the cool tile, letting the heat sink into my aching joints.
I expect him to step back, to give me the privacy I’ve spent thirty-two years guarding like a fortress.
Instead, I feel the heavy, solid presence of him stepping in behind me.
He takes the soap, lathering his hands before he begins to wash me. He cleans the slick from my thighs, the salt from my skin, his fingers tracing the curve of my ribs with a tenderness that makes my throat tighten.
"Close your eyes," he murmurs.
His fingers massage my temples, pressing just hard enough to kill the lingering ache of the fever. I lean into him, my back against his chest, listening to the steady, rhythmic thrum of his heart. For a few minutes, the water is the only world that exists.
Then, the silence shifts. I can feel it in the way his touch becomes a little more mechanical, the way his breathing hitches.
"The suppression nodes in District Four are spiking," Jorak says, his voice losing its softness as the soldier comes back to the surface. "Mercer called while you were under. The corruption is spreading toward the university. He’s going to want me in the field by sundown."
I turn in his arms, the water slicking my hair back. I put my hand over his mouth, my fingers still soapy. "Not yet. Please. Just five more minutes where none of that is real. No Mercer. No Black Current. Just... this."
He looks at me, his eyes searching mine, the static of his power flickering just beneath the surface of his skin.
Then, he lets out a breath that sounds like a surrender.
He laughs, a soft, huffed sound that brushes against my palm, and he nods.
He finishes washing me in silence, his touch slow and deliberate, as if he’s trying to memorize the texture of my skin before he has to put his armor back on.
When the water finally runs cold, he wraps me in a towel and carries me to the kitchen.
I point out again that I have legs, and again, he ignores me, setting me on the granite counter as if it’s the most natural seat in the world.
He’s still naked, water dripping from his hair and down the hard planes of his stomach, but he doesn't seem to care. He’s focused on the fridge, his movements jerky and unfamiliar as he tries to navigate the domesticity of a kitchen that wasn't built for containment.
"I can make eggs," he says, sounding remarkably unsure for a man who can level a city block.
He cracks an egg against the side of a pan with enough force to shatter the shell into a dozen pieces. He glares at the mess like it’s a personal insult.
I can’t help it; a laugh bubbles up in my chest, shaky but real. "You’re a disaster, Jorak Thorn. Step away from the stove before you ruin breakfast."
He grumbles, but he steps back, watching me with a frustrated kind of affection while I find some bread and a jar of mustard.
I’m still wrapped in the towel, my feet dangling off the counter, but the normalcy of making a sandwich feels like a life raft.
He ends up taking the knife from me and finishing the assembly with intense, silent focus, then holds the sandwich out to me like an offering.
"Eat," he commands.
He stands between my thighs, his hands resting on the counter on either side of me, caging me in.
It should feel stifling, but instead, it feels like being held in place before I can drift too far.
I take a bite, the flavor of ham and sharp mustard hitting my tongue, and realize just how hollow I’ve felt.
While I eat, he leans in, his nose brushing the sensitive skin of my neck. He’s not biting, just breathing me in, his lips pressing a slow, possessive kiss to the pulse point under my jaw. It’s a reminder. A claim. A way of saying mine without needing the words.
The softness of the morning is a fragile thing, and I know it’s about to break.
I can feel the weight of the question I’ve been carrying since Vesper House, the one that doesn't have a clean mathematical solution.
I set the half-finished sandwich down on the counter, my fingers trembling just a little.
"Jorak," I say, my voice small. "Is there a version of this where we aren't just a crisis management strategy? If the nodes stabilize, if Mercer gets what he wants... what happens to us?"
He pulls back just enough to look at me, his face going hard and serious. He doesn't give me a platitude. He doesn't tell me it’ll be fine. He knows the system as well as I do, and he knows that the ESA doesn't keep things they can't use.
"I don’t know what it looks like yet," he says. His thumb brushes my lower lip, gentle enough that it hurts. "But there is one. I’ll make sure there is."
I believe him, which is the scariest part of all. I lean forward, pressing my forehead against his, trying to absorb some of that certainty. His arms come around me, warm and solid, and for a few breaths, I let myself hold on.
The peace shatters when I finally slide off the counter and head toward the bedroom to find clothes.
My phone is on the nightstand, its screen glowing with the frantic persistence of the world I tried to lock out.
There’s a string of missed calls from the university, but it’s the text from Mira that stops my breath.
I found it. The archive logs from the '94 shift. Asa, you need to get to the library now. I think I know why they flagged your blood.
I stare at the words, the morning’s softness evaporating like mist. The old records. The thing Mira was chasing before my heat took over the library. The reason she looked at me like the ground had opened under both of us.
Behind me, I hear the sharp, discordant chirp of Jorak’s facility-issued comms. He picks it up from the floor, his face darkening as he reads the display. The silence that follows is brittle, the air in the room suddenly tasting of ozone again.
"Mercer," he says, his voice flat. "He knows about the heat and they’ve been outside downstairs for most of it. They just left but now there’s a flare in District Six. They’re sending a transport for me in twenty minutes."
He looks at me, and I see the struggle in his eyes, the feral instinct to stay and cage me, to hide me in the nest until the danger passes, fighting against the reality of the leash he’s worn for ten years.
He’s angry. More than angry. He’s vibrating with suppressed violence that makes the lights in the hallway flicker.
I walk over to him, stepping into his space even as the Black Current starts to hum in his marrow. I put my hands on his chest, feeling the frantic heat of him. "Go. If you stay, he’ll know something is wrong. He’ll come here. And I need to meet Mira."
"Asa—"
"I’m an associate professor, Jorak. I’m going to a library.
It’s literally the safest place in the city for a man like me.
" I try to make it sound like a joke, but my voice is too thin. I can see the way his jaw tightens, the way his fingers twitch as if he’s imagining wrapping them around Mercer’s throat.
He grabs me, pulling me into a kiss that is anything but gentle, and when he pulls back, his eyes are glowing with a faint, entropic light.
"The university," he says, his voice a low, dangerous warning. "I’ll meet you there as soon as I’m clear of the node. If you see anyone from the facility, any of Mercer’s suits, you run. Do you hear me?"
"I hear you," I say, trying to steady my hands. "I have class in three hours anyway. If you don't show up, I’m failing you on the midterm."
He doesn't smile. He just looks at me one last time, a look that says he’s memorizing the way the light hits my face in my own bedroom, before he turns and walks out the door.
I dress quickly, pulling on a clean sweater and the heavy wool coat my grandmother bought me years ago.
I still smell like him. No matter how much soap I used, the cedar and whiskey is buried in my pores, a permanent record of the last two days and fuck if I don’t love it.