Trying to Relax #3
We leave before the gratitude turns into questions.
“Well done,” I tell him as we slip toward the edge of the square.
“We,” he corrects.
“You did the talking.”
“You identified the problem. Directed the response. Managed the timeline.”
“I pointed at things.”
“Effectively.” He glances at me, something warm in his expression. “You have instincts I have spent twenty-two years trying to develop. The ability to see a situation and know, immediately, what needs to happen.”
“That’s just experience.”
“Experience is not nothing.”
I shouldn’t find this warm—the deflection, the quiet insistence on partnership, the way he looks at me like eight centuries of competence is something to be admired rather than feared. I do anyway.
Near the edge of the square, a man watches us leave. Middle-aged, merchant clothes that fit too well to be local, eyes that track in ways that suggest training. He’s been there for the last hour. Watching. Noting.
I file the face. We’ve left a mark. That’s the problem with competence—it’s visible.
The walk back is quieter. Evening settling over the town, shops closing, families gathering.
My feet ache. My back aches. Nobody tells you about the feet and the back.
The midwives know—I’ve seen it in their eyes—but they keep quiet, probably worried you’ll make a run for it before the third trimester—as if running is something I could achieve right now.
Ten minutes of standing and I want to sit down.
Twenty minutes of walking and I want to lie down.
Thirty minutes and I want to transcend my physical form entirely.
The small human I’m growing has also, this exact second, decided to practice acrobatics against my bladder.
I have killed four-hundred and thirty-seven people in single combat. I have survived executions, betrayals, and one very determined avalanche. I have been alive for eight hundred years.
I have never had to pee this badly in my life.
Glamorous.
The inn room is dim when we return. Someone left fresh water in the basin and a small plate of candied ginger on the table—the kind meant for pregnant women. The innkeeper’s wife noticed what I’ve been trying to hide with loose clothing and strategic posture. Kindness without agenda.
I sit on the edge of the bed and let my shoulders drop from where they’ve been living near my ears.
“We’re terrible at this,” I say.
“At relaxing?”
“At not getting involved.”
Ren sits beside me, close enough that I can feel the warmth of him. “I have attempted to cultivate detachment for twenty-two years.”
“How’s that working?”
“Poorly.”
“Twenty-two years is a good sample size.”
“Large enough to draw conclusions, certainly.”
I should make a joke. Deflect. That’s what I do.
Instead: “I’ve tried for eight centuries. Every time I tell myself I’ll just observe. Not get involved. Let someone else fix it.” I stare at the ceiling, the cracks there forming patterns I could read if I wanted to. “Every time, I mean it. Every time, I fail.”
“Perhaps it is not a flaw to be corrected.”
“What is it, then?”
He considers this the way he considers everything—weighted, careful, precise. “Humanity. Compatibility.”
I turn to look at him.
“We are equally incapable of walking away,” he says. “This is not dysfunction. It is alignment.”
“That’s a very charitable interpretation.”
“I am feeling charitable.”
I should argue. Point out that charity doesn’t change the fact that we left a trail back there, that someone noticed, that our inability to stop might cost us.
Instead, I lean into his shoulder. Let myself rest against the solid reality of him.
“At least it’s efficient,” I say.
“Extremely efficient.”
“Two disasters, one shared inability to mind our own business.”
“A perfect match.”
I shouldn’t smile. I do anyway.
“Progress,” Tianlong murmurs from somewhere nearby. “Minimal, grudging, glacially slow progress. But I will take what I can get.
Neither of us moves to light the lamps. The darkness is comfortable—not the darkness of threat, but the darkness of rest. Two people who have spent the day being exactly who they are and finding that acceptable.
I should sleep. Tomorrow will require movement, vigilance, the constant assessment that neither of us can turn off. My body is tired in ways that go beyond physical.
I don’t move.
His hand finds mine in the dark. Warm. Certain. No hesitation, no question. Like this is simple—reaching for someone, holding on, not letting go.
I don’t pull away.
His thumb traces my knuckles once, slowly. The smallest gesture.
That’s all. That’s enough.
At the window, Dumpling’s posture shifts. Ears forward. Tail still. Watching something in the street below.
I note it. File it. His hand stays in mine.
“Tomorrow,” I say.
“Tomorrow,” he agrees.
We don’t specify what. We don’t need to. Tomorrow we leave this town and the marks we’ve left behind. Tomorrow we find out if anyone follows.
Tonight, his hand is warm in mine and the dark is comfortable and the small human inside me is quiet for once.
Two disasters who fit together anyway.
That has to be enough.