Chapter 5
JAELA
The corridor lights flicker as I step into the rehab wing, and I swear I can hear whispers twisting behind the hum of the life-support systems. My heels click against sterile tile. I feel eyes—dozens of them—trail the sway of my lab coat, the shadow of Kyldak’s return hanging over me like static.
In the corner, a tech nurse murmurs, “That’s the one.” Another leans in, an eyelash flicking me as I pass. I stiffen. My palms itch with professional armor.
I nearly walk into Commander Rolth’s office before he summons me in.
“Jaela,” he says, voice low. The blinds are drawn. The room smells of stale coffee and tension. “We need to talk about your assignment.” He ducks under the low light and waits until I close the door behind me.
I fold my arms. “We are talking.”
He sighs. “You know what people are saying.”
I don’t blink. “Rumor is the favorite pastime of those who can’t do their job.” I force it to sound like a joke.
Rolth leans back, shadows falling across his face. “This is real scrutiny. High-profile incidents. Veterans’ advocates watching. One misstep with your Vakutan patient and—”
“And the program’s accused of favoritism? Of being reckless?” I finish for him. My throat tightens. I force a steady voice. “Don’t worry. I know the stakes.”
He studies me. “This is politics, Jaela. Your passion won’t save you. Your caution might. Don’t forget that.”
I drop my gaze. My throat tastes of pressure. “I won’t.”
He lets me go. The door slides shut behind me and I emerge into the buzzing wing, braced for whatever’s next.
In the therapy bay, Kyldak is already there—standing. Barely steady, but standing. No stagger, no apology. He meets my eyes when I step in, and that look—they say everything unsaid. I press my lips into a thin line and mask it with business.
“Morning,” I say. "Let’s test balance metrics today."
He nods, voice rough. “Morning.”
I hand him the gait support bands. He wraps them, barely touching. The air between us is taut, like a string pulled too tight. It hums. I hate the sound.
We begin with slow drills—foot placement, weight shift, core engagement. I stay close, guiding his shoulder, aligning his hips. He doesn’t lean. He doesn’t push. Just stands in the gravity of me.
His breathing is a low rumble. His muscles tense. He stumbles once. The bar tilts, and before I know it, I reach over. My fingers brush his. Instantly every nerve in me sings.
I feel the static. Crackling. He freezes.
We’re a millimeter apart. Time slows.
I want to lean forward. To close the gap. To say what I’ve never said. But the world intrudes.
A patient screams down the hallway—sharp, urgent, human in crisis. The spell breaks. The bar rattles. He starts. I step back.
“Patient emergency,” I breathe, rushing from the bay. The scent of antiseptic is acid in my sinuses. Alarms hum. A nurse dashes past me, clipping on gloves.
I’m already rounding the corner when I hear him: “Jaela—wait.”
I freeze in the hall. My pulse thunders. I don’t turn. I can’t.
He comes up beside me. His voice low, harsh. “Thank you—for staying.”
My shoulders stiffen. I swallow. The hallway is too bright, sterile. The smell of antiseptic and fear hangs heavy.
I twist to face him. “I’d leave if I thought it’d help,” I say quietly.
He closes the distance enough that I feel his presence like weight. “Maybe,” he murmurs, “I don’t want you to leave.”
I blink.
We stand there. The hallway full of motion—staff, patients, wheels, voices—but we exist apart. Eyes locked. The unsaid swelling, heavy and raw.
I taste the edge of tears in my throat. Fear, pride, desire. All tangled. My lips part.
He doesn’t move closer. He doesn’t pull away.
I want that kiss. The half-promise. But I hold still.
He doesn't speak.
Minutes stretch.
Then a nurse rounds the corner, breaking it all. Kyldak’s jaw clenches. He glances at me—something—soft, sharp, unsettled—and he steps away. He walks back to the bay, not looking over his shoulder.
I watch him go. The echo of his retreating steps rings louder than the alarms.
I stand in the hallway, breath shallow, shaking with what-ifs. The corridor lights flicker. I blink twice. What if?
The corridor lights blur behind my eyelids as I close the door to my apartment. It hums shut. My lungs ache. I’ve left the rehabbing body of a golden war god behind me in the hospital halls, but somehow, I carry his weight on my chest.
Inside, the little space smells like home: warm air, faint ozone from my tinkering, fresh laundry, and a trace of jasmine from a diffuser I almost forgot to empty.
The holo-panel flickers on automatically—“Welcome, Dr. Stonmer”—and the faint chime of a delivery alert rings in my ears like permission to break.
On the table lies a package. From Vira. Of course.
I slice through tape with the edge of my thumb. Inside—I’m not prepared. Baby clothes. Tiny onesies in pastel blues and greens, printed with stars and “I’m the future.” A small plush lizard. And a note: “If you ever want this, I got you, sis. Love, V.”
My throat tightens. I draw in a breath, rich and bitter, the smell of new cotton and synthetic fibers. I can faintly detect Vira’s favorite soap in the enclosed card pocket. The kind of detail she’d use to make me feel taken care of.
I drop to my knees and press palms flat on the floor.
I pick up a onesie, finger the seam, the smooth embroidery.
My chest twists—something like longing, something like fear.
I think: What would he be like? Kyldak. As a father.
Those callused hands raised to protect, golden scales warmed to cradle.
My heart hammers in my ears. I throw the onesie across the room.
It lands soft against the wall, a sound like a quiet gasp.
I hate thinking like this. I hate him, half broken, half flame—and I absolutely hate that this little garment feels like betrayal.
I slip under the cold light of the holo-lamp and call Vira.
She appears in her holo-frame, sun-lit patio behind her. She’s in sleepwear, messy hair, sipping something bright. She grins like she caught me doing something stupid.
“Package arrived?” she asks before I even speak.
I clear my throat. “Yes.” My voice is rough. I stand and pace. “What the hell did you get me, mask-maker?”
She laughs, that way that lights up the corners of her eyes. “Just stuff I found when I was browsing baby gear. Jokes, mostly. But also... hope. I figured maybe it’d annoy you enough to laugh.”
I muscle a smile. “You’re a cruel woman.”
“You love it.” She leans forward. “Are you okay?”
I open my mouth. Close it. Open again. “I,” I correct myself. “I might need you to hold this for me.” I gesture to the pile on the carpet.
“Of course.” Vira tilts her head. “You know I will. Always.”
I swallow. “Thanks.” I pad over, pick up the plush lizard. Squeeze it once. “Good night.”
She nods. “Night, Jae.” Then she vanishes.
I sit on the couch, lizard in hand, the onesies half folded across my thighs. I try to sleep. I fail. The stitch of regret and yearning digs deep. My dreams that night braid together flame and scales and whispering—his name echoing softly.
Morning comes too soon. The light is sharp through the window slats. I wake stiff with regret and determination. I dress fast—work shirt, utility pants, boots. I taste the bitter tang of caffeine on my tongue before I even make it to the holo-caf.
I breeze through diagnostics, then walk the garden path outside the rehab wing—hands in pockets, boots stirring dew off biolum leaves—and there is Kyldak. Leaning on a modified cane, stepping slow but steady, his silhouette framed by soft green glow. He sees me and gives a curt nod.
I join him. The air is cool, damp with living green. The scent of moss and warm stone presses around us. His cane clacks faintly against the paved path.
“You’re making progress,” I say. I mean it.
He snorts. “I wobble less than yesterday.”
I grin. “That’s improvement.”
He looks at me. “This path… you pick good walks.”
I slow. “I like when the world is quiet.” I hesitate. “When you’re here.”
He flushes. “Don’t—just—don’t romanticize scars.”
I stop. The garden hushes. Fireflies drift like drifting stars. His cane thumps once. He moves his hand to the rail of a shaded arbor.
I step closer. The gap between us is narrow. Tension like stretched wire.
“I’ve always felt like I have to fix things,” I blurt. “Not because I can—but because someone should. Because I watched parts of me and parts of others break, and no one ever asked if the pieces still fit.”
He studies me. The amber in his eye flickers. The cane sinks deeper into ground.
He says quietly, “Maybe you were born to break the rules.”
The admission stings. It’s not comfort. But it’s truth.
I open my mouth to respond, but he moves. Steps closer, near enough that I can see the ridges in his skin, the seams of regeneration, the slight twitch of muscles taut from overuse.
His lips brush mine—quick, shattering—and he halts. Eyes flick closed then open. Regret, maybe. Surprise. Desire.
I don’t speak. I don’t move.
He steps back, the cane tapping. “I—” he chokes.
I force a small laugh. “You didn’t mean to. It’s fine.”
He shakes his head. “I meant it.”
We stand there under the glow of biolight vines. The world is still. His breath mingles with mine. The garden smells like green and possibility and the quiet ache of edges not yet softened.
When we finally part ways, I walk faster, boots echoing on stone. Night comes and I don’t sleep.
I dream of golden scales brushing against skin. Of hands cupped to me, strong, unexpected. Of voices—his and mine—echoing across empty rooms. I wake to silence, the plush lizard in my fist, the edges of hope cutting me open.