The pressure changed its weight overnight.
It no longer sat politely behind Evan's ribs.
It leaned.
He woke before dawn with his heart already tired, like it had been running in a dream his mind couldn't remember. His shirt clung to his back. The room smelled faintly of disinfectant and something human—fear, maybe, or just the body's old habit of preparing for pain.
He sat up slowly.
The world tilted, then steadied.
Not yet, he told himself.
It's not happening yet.
But the feeling had edges now.
Not sharp.
Defined.
Like a shadow finally deciding what it belonged to.
Evan pressed his feet to the floor.
Cold traveled up his bones.
He stood, walked to the sink, drank water in small, careful mouthfuls. His hands shook, but less than before. He had learned how to hide the worst of it inside himself, the way people learn to hide scars under clothing.
When he closed his eyes, images tried to form.
Not faces.
Not places.
Just movement.
A door opening quietly.
A breath held too long.
The gentle patience of someone who had already made peace with what they were about to do.
Evan gripped the edge of the sink.
"No," he whispered to the empty room.
The word didn't argue back.
Noah noticed the change immediately.
Evan's voice was slower that morning. Not weaker—he had learned the difference—but heavier, like every sentence had to travel through water before reaching the surface.
"You're quieter," Noah said as they walked down the corridor.
"I'm listening," Evan replied.
"To what?"
"To something learning how to speak."
Noah didn't like that answer.
They sat in the interrogation room again, not because they had to, but because it had become a place where difficult things were allowed to exist without pretending to be normal.
Noah didn't turn on the recorder.
He just sat across from him.
"Tell me what you know," he said.
Evan folded his hands.
Unfolded them.
Folded them again.
"They're close to someone," he said. "Emotionally. Not physically."
Noah leaned forward slightly.
"A partner?"
"Could be. Or a friend. Or family." Evan swallowed. "Someone who trusts them."
Noah's jaw tightened.
"When?"
"Soon."
"How soon?"
Evan looked at the table.
"Enough that my body has stopped asking permission."
Noah didn't speak.
There were things you couldn't fix with authority.
Only with presence.
"If you could talk to them," Noah said quietly, "what would you say?"
Evan's voice broke on the first attempt.
"I'd tell them that the part of them that still hesitates is real," he said. "That it still counts."
He inhaled slowly.
"And I'd beg them not to make me carry this."
Noah looked away.
For a second, he hated the world for being shaped like this.
At the hospital, Rhea found Kai in the supply room arguing with a broken cabinet.
"It's mocking me," he said seriously.
"You're losing a debate with furniture," she replied.
"It started it."
She smiled before she could stop herself.
"How's your day?" she asked.
He shrugged. "Quiet. Which in this job feels suspicious."
Rhea leaned against the counter.
"Do you ever think about leaving?"
Kai blinked. "Like… for lunch?"
"For good."
He considered it.
Then shook his head.
"No. I think I'd feel useless somewhere quieter."
She nodded.
"I used to think that too."
Kai studied her face.
"You don't anymore?"
"I think I just got tired of being strong in the same place."
He softened.
"You don't have to be strong around me," he said lightly.
She laughed.
"You don't get to decide that."
But something in her chest loosened anyway.
They stood there, surrounded by sterile walls and the quiet hum of machines keeping other people alive.
It felt fragile.
Real.
That night, Evan dreamed of hands.
Not violent hands.
Careful ones.
Hands that tucked someone in.
Hands that closed a door softly.
Hands that knew exactly how much force to use.
He woke with his heart racing.
The pressure had grown teeth.
He curled onto his side, breath shallow, eyes burning.
Somewhere in the city, someone had moved one step closer to becoming something they could never undo.
And Evan felt it the way some people felt weather in their bones.
He pressed his face into the pillow.
"I'm sorry," he whispered.
To the stranger.
To the future.
To himself.