Evening settled gently over the recovery wing.
The light from the Sol filtered through the tall glass panels in softened layers, no longer sharp or blinding, but warm and low—like it, too, was resting after everything it had burned through. The room smelled faintly of antiseptic and clean linen, a calm that felt earned rather than imposed.
Cyros stirred.
Consciousness returned slowly, like a tide creeping back across sand. First came sensation—the dull ache in his arms, the tight pull of bandages around his hands, the weight of exhaustion sitting deep in his bones. Then sound: the low hum of the building's stabilizers, the distant footsteps of patrol officers changing shifts, the quiet rhythm of breathing that wasn't his.
He opened his eyes.
For a moment, he simply stared at the ceiling, letting the world come back into focus. The events of the last two days hovered at the edge of his mind—blurred, heavy, present but not yet pressing. He inhaled carefully, testing himself, then turned his head slightly.
Aerin sat beside the bed.
She wasn't sleeping this time.
She sat upright in the chair pulled close to him, hands resting in her lap, posture straight out of habit even now. The bandage on her forehead caught the light faintly, and the wraps around her hands were clean but unmistakable. Her gaze was fixed on the window, on the Sol beyond it, her expression tight in a way Cyros recognized immediately.
She was thinking too much.
"Aerin," he said quietly.
Her shoulders jerked, just a little. She turned so quickly that the chair scraped softly against the floor.
"Cyros—" She stopped herself, breath catching, then steadied. "You're awake."
"Seems like it," he replied. His voice was rough, but calm. "How long was I out this time?"
"Not long," she said. "A few hours. They told you to rest. You actually listened."
He almost smiled. Almost.
There was a pause.
Aerin didn't move closer. She didn't stand. She just looked at him, eyes searching his face as if checking for cracks that hadn't been there before.
"You shouldn't have pushed yourself," she said finally. Her voice was controlled, but something trembled beneath it. "Your core readings were unstable. Even now, they're not fully settled."
Cyros turned his head more fully toward her. "And Lucian?"
She hesitated.
"He's stable," she said. "Still unconscious. But stable."
Cyros let out a slow breath he hadn't realized he was holding. His fingers twitched slightly against the bandages, then relaxed.
"That's good."
Silence stretched between them again, thicker this time. The kind that pressed against the chest if left untouched.
Aerin looked down at her hands.
"I need to say something," she said.
Cyros waited.
She took a breath—then another—as if preparing for impact.
"I tried to stop you," she said. "Back there. When the leader said you could help Lucian. I told you not to."
He nodded once. "You did."
"I was wrong."
The words came out flat, almost clinical, but her hands curled into fists as she said them.
"I'm trained not to freeze," she continued. "That's why I chose Patrol alongside Medic. I asked for it. I didn't want to be someone who could heal after the damage was done but couldn't stop it while it was happening. I didn't want to stand back and watch people break."
Her jaw tightened.
"And yet… when it mattered most, I froze anyway."
She looked up at him then, eyes sharp with self-reproach.
"I couldn't help Lucian. I tried—my medic techniques, my stabilization methods, everything I knew. None of it worked. I was already losing him right in front of me, and I could do nothing but watch him scream."
Her voice wavered, just barely.
"And then you stepped forward."
Cyros said nothing.
"You were hurt. Exhausted. Barely standing," Aerin went on. "And you were still willing to walk into that storm. To risk yourself for him."
She swallowed.
"And all I could think was—I can't lose you too."
The admission hung in the air, fragile and exposed.
"I wasn't thinking like a patrol officer," she said quietly. "Or like a medic. I wasn't thinking at all. I just—reacted. I tried to stop you because the idea of you falling there, of you not getting back up…" Her fingers dug into her palms. "It terrified me."
She straightened suddenly, shoulders squaring as if bracing for judgment.
"That doesn't excuse it," she said firmly. "I know that. I tried to take away your choice. I tried to control the situation because I was afraid. And that's not protection. That's selfishness."
Cyros watched her closely.
Aerin Vale—top of every test, disciplined to the point of rigidity, always moving forward with purpose—sat before him now stripped of that armor. She wasn't asking for absolution. She was stating a fact, as she saw it, and accepting the weight of it without flinching.
"You didn't freeze," Cyros said.
She blinked. "I—"
"You acted," he continued. His voice was quiet, steady. "Freezing would have meant doing nothing. You didn't do nothing."
She frowned slightly, uncertain.
"You stepped in front of me," he said. "You argued. You tried to protect someone who mattered to you. That's not freezing. That's fear."
She looked away. "Fear isn't acceptable on the field."
"It exists anyway," Cyros replied.
Aerin turned back to him, surprised.
He shifted slightly on the bed, ignoring the ache in his shoulders.
"I was afraid too," he said.
She stiffened. "You didn't look it."
"That doesn't mean it wasn't there." His gaze dropped to his bandaged hands. "When I walked toward Lucian, I didn't know if it would work. I didn't even know if I would survive it. I just knew that if I didn't try, I would have to live with that."
He looked back at her.
"And that scared me more."
Aerin stared at him, something in her expression breaking open.
"You always say things like they're simple," she murmured. "Like the answer is obvious."
"They aren't," Cyros said. "I just choose one anyway."
She exhaled shakily.
"I chose Patrol so I wouldn't hesitate," she said. "So I wouldn't be someone who stood behind protocols when lives were on the line. And when it came down to it, the only thing I could think about was losing people."
Her voice softened. "Losing you."
Cyros felt something warm and unfamiliar settle in his chest.
"That means you're human," he said. "Not unfit."
She laughed quietly, almost involuntarily. It was a small sound, surprised and unsure.
"You're really bad at comforting people," she said.
"I'm aware."
That earned him a more genuine smile.
Aerin leaned back slightly in her chair, tension easing from her shoulders for the first time since he'd woken.
"I don't want to be someone who freezes again," she said. "Next time, I want to stand beside you. Even if I'm scared."
Cyros nodded. "That's enough."
They sat like that for a while, the quiet no longer heavy.
Eventually, Aerin glanced at his bandages and sighed. "You know," she said, "the doctors said if you overuse your core again anytime soon, they'll sedate you."
"Threatening me already?"
"Stating medical fact."
He huffed softly. "I'll behave."
She raised an eyebrow. "You?"
"Temporarily."
Aerin shook her head, amusement flickering through her fatigue.
"You're impossible," she said.
"And you hugged me this morning," Cyros replied.
Her face flushed instantly. "That was— I wasn't thinking."
"Seems to be a theme today."
Aerin leaned back in her chair, exhaustion finally catching up to her. "When you were unconscious," she said, "Taren wouldn't stop talking. He said if you woke up and didn't hear his voice immediately, you'd think something was wrong."
Cyros let out a chuckle. "That sounds accurate."
"He told Lucian the same thing," she added. "Lucian didn't respond, but I think… I think he heard."
Cyros' expression softened. "He'll wake up."
"I know," Aerin said. And for the first time, she truly believed it.
She stood after a moment, stretching carefully. "You should sleep again."
"I just woke up."
"And you talk too much when you're tired."
He smiled faintly as she turned toward the door, then paused.
"Aerin," he said.
She looked back.
"I'm glad you were there," he said simply.
Her expression softened, something warm and steady settling in her eyes.
"…Me too," she replied.
Then she left him to rest, the quiet returning—but this time, it felt lighter.