Page 88 of Thexan

Brynn released my hand only long enough to cross to the supply cabinet.

The loss of contact no longer created instability. My system remained fully aligned, my repair functions operating within optimal limits, the bond settled into a continuous state that did not require physical connection to remain active. I could stand apart from her now without degradation, could track the perimeter, evaluate the movement outside, and maintain full control of my responses.

Yet when she moved away from me, I remained aware of the distance because I preferred it closed.

That preference had become increasingly difficult to categorize as anything other than emotional attachment, though the terminology still seemed insufficient. It did not account for the full range of response she produced in me. It did not account for the way my attention recalibrated around her without reducing my broader awareness, or the way her public declaration of connection had altered the settlement’s perception and my own with equal force.

She had taken my hand where others could see.

The contact had been simple by human standards, but it had communicated more than speech would have. It placed her choice in public view and eliminated ambiguity. She had not stood near me out of obligation, nor had she allowed others to define the nature of our bond for her. She had confirmed it herself.

That action remained with me.

Not as data.

As something I found myself returning to because the memory produced a state I could only define as satisfaction.

“You’re quiet,” she said.

I shifted my attention fully to her.

She stood at the cabinet with a roll of clean binding in one hand, watching me over her shoulder with the kind of focus that told me she had noticed more than silence. Brynn did not merely observe. She interpreted. That was one of the reasons she had survived in this place, and one of the reasons I trusted her assessment even when it contradicted my own.

“I am processing,” I said.

“That sounds serious.”

“It is.”

Her expression softened, not enough to become amusement, but enough that I recognized the edge of it. “All right. What are you processing?”

“The interaction outside.”

“With Mico?”

“With all of them.”

She returned to me, carrying the supplies with her, and gestured toward the cot. “Sit down before you process yourself into reopening that wound.”

I complied because there was no reason not to, lowering myself onto the cot while she set the supplies beside me. Her hands were already moving before I had fully settled, reaching for the edge of the bandage with that same careful confidence she had shown from the beginning. The intimacy of the action had changed. The treatment itself was familiar, but now there was no division between healer and patient that could fully contain it.

Her touch was practical yet it felt so personal.

“You handled them better than I expected,” she said as she worked.

“I did not intend to cause fear.”

“I know.”

“That does not mean fear will not occur.”

“I know that too.”

She loosened the outer layer of binding and examined the wound, her fingers moving with light pressure along the edge of the reinforcement. The contact no longer carried the urgency it once had, and yet my awareness sharpened with every point at which her skin met mine. My survival depended on it now, but I wanted the touch to continue.

That was the simplest classification available.

Want.