Before the van had fully rolled to a stop outside the station, Yve pushed the passenger door open and climbed out, refusing to wait for Dylan.
She headed straight for the dormitory with a sharp, purposeful stride.
Dylan remained behind the wheel for a moment, tracking her retreat while his gaze lingered on the raw scrape marring her elbow, before a heavy breath slipped past his lips.
By the time he parked the vehicle properly, she had already vanished through the entrance.
Inside her room, the door slammed shut with a sharp crack.
Yve leaned back against the wood, breathing hard, before lifting her arm to inspect the injury.
The scrape was minor, barely worth a second glance, yet her mind was in shambles.
She closed her eyes, trying to force logic back into her system by replaying the morning’s arguments.
This is good.
It feels right.
If I keep doing this, eventually it’ll all stop.
That was the goal.
Distance.
If she kept building walls and pushing Dylan away, the strange, persistent ache inside her would have to fade eventually.
It was the sensible, protective path forward.
It has to be.
Except her thoughts betrayed her almost immediately, dragging up the exact moment Dylan had spotted her on the roadside.
The stark worry etched into his features.
The way he’d rushed toward her without hesitation.
Something fluttered in her.
Yve’s lips curved into a small smile.
She liked that.
Not the fact that she’d scared him.
Never that.
She liked knowing he worried about her.
That she mattered enough for him to react like that.
A soft giggle slipped past her lips, though her eyes instantly welled with hot, confusing moisture.
She remembered the sheer audacity of him hoisting her over his shoulder like a sack of grain, the rough irritation in his voice, and the stubborn persistence that made it impossible to shake him.
And then, the memory of biting his arm flashed through her mind.
Yve covered her mouth, another giggle slipping through.
He’d actually let her do it.
She wiped beneath her eyes with her knuckles, laughing through the tears while a sniff escaped her.
“Idiot…”
She wasn’t entirely sure whether she meant him or herself.
Probably both.
After a moment of standing alone in the quiet room, she crossed over into the bathroom and turned the taps on.
Stripping off her clothes, she filled the tub and lowered herself into the water.
There was always something about the water that managed to reset her nerves, offering a sanctuary to breathe and think.
Even trapped in a cramped human bathtub, the familiar weight of liquid enveloping her skin brought an instant, heavy measure of peace.
Yve drew in a long, steady breath and slid beneath the surface, letting the quiet wash over her.
Just as Yve was finally beginning to find some peace, a sharp knock pounded against the door.
Her eyes opened beneath the water.
Pushing herself upright, she slicked the wet hair from her face, climbed out of the tub, and wrapped a thick robe around herself before marching toward the entrance.
Another knock rattled the wood.
“I’m coming,” she muttered, yanking the door open.
Dylan stood in the corridor.
The second his eyes landed on her damp hair and the soft drape of her robe, his gaze darted away, fixed firmly on the wall beside her head.
“Here…” He cleared his throat, shifting his weight before holding out a black plastic bag.
Yve glanced down at it, her brow furrowing.
“I’m not hungry.”
Dylan looked back at her, his expression flat.
“Ain’t food.”
Yve raised an eyebrow.
She took the bag from him and looked inside.
Gauze, antiseptic, bandages, and the other supplies looked familiar.
They reminded her of the materials the nurses had used when they’d cleaned Lara’s injuries.
Her confusion must have shown because Dylan nodded toward the bag.
“For your wound.”
Yve looked down at the raw scrape on her elbow, then back up at his face.
“Oh.” A small, polite smile touched her lips.
Neither of them moved.
The hallway air grew thick and heavy, stretching out the silence by the second.
Dylan stood with his hands shoved deep into his pockets, while Yve remained half-hidden behind the door frame, clutching the medkit tight against her chest.
Neither appeared willing to break the tension, and neither seemed to know how to bridge the gap.
Then Dylan remembered something, pulling his own device out of his pocket and holding it out toward her.
“Use it,” he said, keeping his voice level.
“While I buy ya a new one.”
She hesitated for a beat before taking it from his hand.
“Hmmkay…” Her fingers closed over the warm plastic casing.
“Anything else?”
Dylan shook his head once.
“Charger’s in my room.”
“Okay.”
Another heavy pause settled over the threshold.
Dylan cleared his throat again, a quiet signal of retreat.
Yve offered him another brief, tight smile before easing the door shut between them.
The latch clicked.
Dylan stared at the closed barrier for a long moment, a faint, humorless smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
He was annoyed, confused, worried, and—though he refused to put a clean label on it—genuinely hurt, maybe even a little sad.
He still couldn’t piece together what had shifted between them.
Had they actually crossed into an argument?
Was she just riding out a bad mood?
Was she frustrated with the station work?
Or had she simply decided she didn’t want him around anymore?
That last possibility clawed at him far more than it should have.
With a long, sharp breath through his nose, Dylan shook his head and turned away down the hall.
Inside the room, Yve leaned her back against the locked door, clutching the medkit and Dylan’s phone tightly to her chest.
Her eyes slipped shut.
She hated herself for shutting the door in his face.
It had been rude, and she knew it, and hating herself for doing it didn’t make the sting any less real.
But it was the right move.
It had to be.
She had survived wars, staggering losses, and the brutal, unforgiving training regimen drilled into her since she was eighty years old.
She had survived horrors far worse than this.
This was nothing.
Just a fleeting crush.
A little admiration.
Familiarity.
Attachment from having Dylan at her side through every crisis these past few months.
Nothing more.
Nothing less.
Yve opened her eyes, staring down at the phone pressed against her heart, and swallowed hard.
“That’s all it is,” she whispered to the empty room.
She repeated the words like a spell.
Just a crush.
Nothing more.
Whatever strange, violent storms were brewing beneath her skin, she would weather them.
They had to pass eventually.
~~~
The sun slipped toward the horizon, bathing the station in fading orange light.
Yve still hadn’t come out of her room.
Every time Dylan passed the dormitory, his eyes drifted toward her door.
He never knocked.
He had already figured out she wanted space, even if he still didn’t understand why.
There wasn’t much else for him to do.
Yve was holed up in her room, and his phone was with her.
He’d already bought her a new one but decided he’d give it to her in the morning.
Maybe she’d be more willing to talk by then.
He’d also installed a tracking app on it, planning to connect it to his own phone later.
For now, he left her alone.
Inside her quarters, Yve had spent the entire day sprawled across the bed, still wrapped in her thick robe without bothering to change.
Dylan’s phone and the med kit rested on the mattress beside her.
Nearly an hour after he had dropped them off, the raw scrape on her elbow had already vanished, leaving behind smooth, unblemished skin.
Hours passed without her noticing.
The room was peaceful.
Her mind wasn’t.
She stared at the ceiling, letting the silence stretch around her until a sudden ringtone broke through it.
Yve blinked, her eyes locking onto Dylan’s phone.
Grasping the device, she answered without checking the caller ID.
“Hey, dumbass.
Mom asked if you’re gonna come home for your birthday.”
Yve froze, instantly recognizing the voice cutting through the speaker.
“Oh…
Clyne.”
“Yve?”
A brief confused pause hung on the line.
“Where’s Dyl?”
Yve scrambled upright, her mind racing.
“Oh, hang on.”
“Alright…” Clyne waited.
Yve dropped the phone onto the bed, keeping the call connected while her eyes darted toward the med kit.
If Dylan sees her, he’ll check her wound.
Of course he would.
She tore open the plastic packaging, pulling out the gauze, Betadine, and medical tape.
The problem was obvious.
Panicking slightly, she poured a splash of Betadine over the healed skin anyway, wrapped a layer of gauze around her forearm, and anchored it with tape.
She squinted down at the makeshift bandage.
It looked convincing enough.
Maybe.
Her expression tightened into a grimace.
What if Dylan pulls the bandage back to inspect it?
Yve groaned, dragging her free hand down her face.
“No, no, no…”
With an irritated sigh, she extended her claws.
The tips pressed against her skin, she dragged one across the same spot.
The fresh line of red appeared immediately.
Yve didn’t even flinch.
She wiped the blood away, replaced the gauze, and secured it with another strip of medical tape.
There.
Now there was an actual wound.
A very convincing one.
Snatching Dylan’s phone back off the mattress, she bolted for the door.
Clyne’s voice came through the speaker.
“Yve?”
“Coming!” she muttered, yanking the door open and sprinting down the stairs and across the courtyard toward Dylan’s quarters.
Yve hammered her knuckles against the wood.
Nothing.
She knocked again, sharper this time.
Still no answer.
Frowning, she tilted her head toward the barrier and let her hearing sharpen.
Total silence.
No footsteps, no shifting weight, no rhythmic rise and fall of breath on the other side.
Closing her eyes, she pulled in a deep breath through her nose, tracking the faint, familiar scent of cedar and laundry detergent lingering around the door frame.
She followed the trail past the residential block, cutting down the corridor toward the research building.
The scent led her straight to the common room.
Inside, Dylan sat at one of the laminate tables flanked by Emily and Harry.
Takeout containers and half-empty plates were spread across the surface, and the cadence of their conversation suggested they had been deep in discussion for a while.
Dylan was smiling.
Yve stopped dead at the entrance.
Emily was animatedly telling some story, Harry tossing in dry comments between bites, while Dylan listened with an easy, unguarded expression she rarely saw anymore.
He looked relaxed.
Amused.
For a fraction of a second, something sharp and hot twisted violently in her chest.
She shoved the reaction down with ruthless efficiency.
That wasn’t what this was.
She couldn’t be jealous.
There was nothing to be jealous about.
Clearing her throat, she stepped fully into the room.
“Dylan.”
He whipped his head around.
The smile vanished instantly, replaced by a flash of mild surprise.
She walked over and held out his phone.
Dylan took it, his eyes dropping automatically to the screen.
Clyne’s name was still lit up on the active call.
He glanced back up at Yve, his gaze lingering over her disheveled appearance.
Her hair was tangled and wild, the thick robe still wrapped tightly around her frame, and a streak of dried Betadine stained her forearm near the crude, hastily wrapped bandage around her elbow.
Dylan’s expression darkened into a hard, knowing squint.
He didn’t say a word, just fixed her with a look.
Yve offered him a small smile.
Dylan looked back down at the phone, then stood up, stepping away from the table to grab a patch of quiet privacy.
Yve remained where she was.
Emily smiled warmly, gesturing toward the spread of food.
“You want some?”
Yve shook her head.
“I’m not hungry.”
Harry slid a clean paper plate across the table anyway.
“You sure?”
“Yes.
Thank you,” she murmured.
She lingered near the table while Dylan spoke a few paces away, one hand buried in his pocket while he held the phone to his ear.
Yve tried her best not to listen.
She failed completely.
Her enhanced hearing picked up every single syllable.
“Mom’s begging you to come home so we can celebrate your birthday.”
Dylan chuckled under his breath, leaning back against the wall.
“I ain’t comin’.”
“You talk to her, then.
My ears’ll bleed for hours if I tell her that.”
“Fine.
I’ll talk to Mom.”
Clyne laughed on the other end.
“By the way, Lara messaged me.
She said she can’t reach either of you.”
“Ah.
Yve’s phone got stolen.
Lent mine to her.”
“She okay?”
Dylan’s gaze shifted across the room toward Yve.
He caught her looking, Yve’s eyes darting away instantly as she suddenly found the wall texture across the common room fascinating.
“She’s fine,” Dylan said.
“Stubborn and fine.”
“Yeah, well…” Clyne paused.
“You’re babysittin’ a princess.”
Dylan glanced at Yve again, a faint grin crossing his face.
“More like a dragon than a princess.”
Yve’s head snapped toward him with a sharp glare, but Dylan missed it, already looking away.
“Would prefer another mission over this.”
“Why?
She givin’ you a hard time?”
Dylan chuckled, a low, dry sound.
“Whatever.”
Clyne laughed on the other end.
“My suggestion?
Don’t spoil her too much.
Just ’cause you’re hired to do whatever you’re hired to do don’t mean you gotta spoil her.
You ain’t her boyfriend.”
“Didn’t say I was.”
“Stop actin’ like one, then.
Think I didn’t notice?
Few months ago, you didn’t even know her.
Yet you let her live rent-free while I, your own brother, had to pay the rent.
I was in your apartment for a few wee—”
Dylan ended the call, cutting off the rant.
He lowered the device and stared at the dark screen for a moment before muttering, “Idiot.”
He shook his head and walked over to where Yve stood.
She kept her chin tilted away, avoiding his eyes with deliberate effort.
Dylan held the phone out toward her.
“Here.”
Yve took it, her fingers brushing briefly against his palm.
For a moment, neither of them said anything, the air between them thick with things left unsaid.
Then Dylan’s gaze dropped down to the clumsy, hastily wrapped bandage on her elbow.
“You hungry?”
Yve shook her head.
“No.”
“Alright.”
He didn’t push or press for answers.
Yve offered him a small, tight nod before turning sharply toward the exit, heading for the dormitory.
Dylan watched her go until she vanished around the corner.
~~~
Inside her room, Yve slammed the door shut and stood alone in the quiet space, staring at nothing for a long beat before her gaze dropped to the clumsily wrapped bandage on her forearm.
“Tchk.”
Her lips pressed into a thin line.
She shouldn’t have bothered.
What was the point of reopening the wound if Dylan wasn’t even going to check it?
The thought irritated her more than it should have.
Yve frowned, rubbing a hand over the back of her neck.
“Why am I frustrated?
So what if he didn’t check my wound?
Who cares?”
Rolling her eyes, she reached down, grabbed the edge of the gauze, and ripped it away from her skin before tossing it straight into the metal trash can.
The sticky medical tape refused to let go of her fingers, clinging stubbornly to her skin.
Yve yanked harder to tear it free.
The rim of the trash can groaned under the excess force, cracking neatly down the side in her hand.
Yve froze.
She stared down at the broken lid, and finally back at her hand.
With a grimace, she let her shoulders sink in defeat.
She rubbed both palms over her face before raking her fingers roughly through her hair and giving a harsh tug.
“Why am I like this?”
She threw her hands up toward the ceiling.
He’s smiling.
That means he’s happy.
Dropping her arms, she planted both hands firmly on her waist and released a long, heavy breath through her mouth.
This whole situation was completely ridiculous.
Yve groaned, letting her forehead fall against her palms.
Then the memory of the phone call flickered back into focus.
Dylan’s birthday.
Her expression shifted, the internal storm giving way to a sudden, determined focus.
She wanted to do something for him.
Maybe take him somewhere nice, buy him a proper dinner, or pull off something simple that he might enjoy.
The catch hit her a second later.
How was she supposed to pull off a birthday gesture after spending the entire day giving him the cold shoulder and slamming doors in his face?
If she suddenly did a complete one-eighty and started acting nice again, he would notice instantly.
He would wonder what kind of mental break she was having, and the thought of explaining herself made the whole idea painfully embarrassing.
Yve dropped onto the edge of the mattress with a soft thud, letting out another heavy sigh.
Still, the stubborn urge refused to die out.
She wanted to do something for his birthday.
Anything.
Even if it was small, she owed him at least that much after everything he had done for her.
Her fingers curled together in her lap as her mind began turning over options.
Now she just had to figure out how to pull it off without looking like an absolute fool.
Just as she reached for the knot of her robe, a sharp knock rattled against the door.
She froze.
With a small, defeated sigh, she pulled the fabric closed again and crossed the living room.
When she yanked the door open, Dylan stood in the corridor with another paper bag in hand.
Yve’s eyes widened in disbelief.
He lifted the bag slightly toward her.
“I said I’m not hungry,” she muttered, starting to swing the door shut in his face.
Dylan caught the edge before it latched, pushing it open just enough to step inside.
Yve backed away a pace as he entered, but he closed the distance without a word, catching her by the arms and guiding her firmly toward the small couch before easing her down into the cushions.
“Where’s the medkit I brought earlier?” he asked.
Yve glanced toward the bedroom door.
Dylan followed her gaze, walking past her to retrieve the supplies.
A few seconds later, he returned with the open medkit, the bottle of Betadine, the remaining gauze, and the roll of medical tape.
“Come on.”
Yve looked up at him, her defenses flaring.
Dylan simply held out a hand.
She hesitated for a beat before slipping her fingers into his palm.
He led her over to the small bathroom sink.
Once they reached it, Dylan gently pulled back the sleeves of her robe to expose her forearms and elbows, turning on the faucet to let the water run warm.
He began washing away the dried, crusty streaks of Betadine clinging to her skin while Yve watched him in total silence.
As the skin cleared, Dylan examined the injury, his brow tightening into a puzzled frown.
It struck him as strange.
He could have sworn the scrape he had spotted on her earlier was a jagged, broad abrasion.
This looked like a clean, sharp line slicing across her skin.
He stared at it for another heartbeat, wondering if his memory was playing tricks on him.
He didn’t dwell on it, pushing the doubt aside as he finished cleaning and drying the area with steady hands.
Guiding her back to the couch, he had her sit while he knelt on the floor in front of her, reaching for the gauze.
The quiet, uncalculated care he poured into something so basic caught her completely off guard.
Yve stared down at him.
The hard lines of his face were sharper this close, his eyes entirely focused on the task at hand.
Every movement was deliberate, measured to ensure he caused her no pain.
Something tight and hot twisted inside her.
She swallowed hard, forcing her gaze away.
Then, despite her best instincts, her eyes drifted right back to him.
Dylan caught her staring.
His eyes lifted from her arm, meeting hers in the dim light.
For a long moment, neither of them moved.
A strange, heavy tension settled between them, the kind of quiet that asked too many questions.
Eventually, Dylan looked away first, clearing his throat as he returned his attention to her arm.
Once the wound was disinfected, he pressed a fresh adhesive bandage over it, smoothing down the edges with his thumb.
His hands lingered around her forearm for another second, checking for any other scrapes he might have missed before stepping back.
Satisfied, he finally released her.
Yve drew her arms inward, crossing them protectively over her ribs.
“Thanks…”
Dylan gave a single, curt nod.
“Yeah.”
Reaching into his jacket, he pulled out the brand-new phone he had bought earlier and held it out.
Yve’s eyes tracked the device immediately.
She took it carefully, turning it over in her palms.
Dylan stood up, giving her one last thorough look before turning toward the exit.
“Eat ‘fore ya go to bed,” he instructed over his shoulder.
“Okay,” she whispered.
Her fingers tightened around the new phone, while her other hand came up to rest lightly over the fresh bandage on her elbow.
Dylan pulled the door open and walked out, letting the latch click shut behind him.
Yve remained frozen on the couch for a long moment, her jaw clenched tight and her lips pressed into a hard line as she bit down on them to keep from making a sound.
Moisture blurred the edges of her vision.
Then her fist rose to strike her chest.
Once.
Twice.
And again.
The impact light and driven more by sheer frustration than force as she tried to beat back the terrifying rush of emotion swelling inside her.
A shaky, ragged breath escaped her lips.
She was happy.
That was the core of the problem.
She was happy that Dylan had come back for her.
Happy that he’d bought her a new phone.
Happy that he’d cleaned her wounds himself, taken the time to check on her, and remembered the things she needed.
She liked it.
She liked all of it, and that terrified her down to her core.
Her fist struck her ribs again, a weak attempt to physicalize the ache as she drew in another unsteady breath.
“Stop…” Her voice barely carried across the room.
She cleared her throat, but a hot tear broke free, tracking down her cheek.
She shook her head and squeezed her eyes shut.
No.
Please.
You can’t.
Her knuckles struck against her ribs again.
Stop feeling.
Don’t feel.
Another tear rolled down her cheek.
She wiped it away roughly, angry with herself for letting it happen.
She pushed herself up from the cushions, needing to put distance between herself and the phantom warmth in the room.
She turned toward the bedroom, but her gaze snagged on the paper bag Dylan had left behind on the counter.
She stopped in her tracks.
For a long moment, she simply stared at it.
Stepping back over to the table, she set the new phone aside and reached into the bag.
The takeout container rested at the bottom, but beneath it, her fingers brushed against a small, flat package.
She pulled it out.
A brand-new phone case, still sealed in its clear plastic wrapper.
Printed across the backing was a sleek, understated mermaid design.
A sharp pressure seized her ribs.
The memory struck her with painful clarity.
Dylan standing beside her.
The rock hurtling toward his face.
Her hand shooting out to catch it mere inches from his skin.
Another wave of cold dread washed over her.
What if she’d been somewhere else?
What if her reflexes had been a fraction of a second too slow?
What if it had struck him?
And behind that single, sharp memory rushed a crushing wave of centuries past.
Mortal life she had watched grow old, wither, and perish.
Lives that flickered out in an instant, gone while she remained frozen in time, untouched and enduring.
Human life was fragile.
Terribly, impossibly fragile.
And Dylan was human.
A choked sob caught in her throat.
Her fingers dug into the edge of the wooden table, her knuckles whitening as she tried to anchor herself against the sudden vertigo.
She shook her head violently.
“No.”
Her fist struck her chest again, a desperate, hollow thud.
“Don’t do this to yourself, Yve.
Don’t…”
Her breathing hitched into broken gasps.
He’s not worth it.
The thought screamed through her mind, sharp and frantic.
He’s merely a passerby.
Her fingers tightened against the table.
He’s not worth it.
Another sob escaped her.
He’s not worth it.
She wiped her cheeks angrily.
He’s not worth it.
Again.
And again.
She chanted the words like a desperate shield in her head, forcing them over and over as if saying it enough times could rewrite the truth burning a hole straight through her heart.