I’m the little spoon this time.

  Kai wakes me with a tight hug from behind, his arm locked across my middle like he’s making sure I don’t drift off somewhere without him. His chin rests briefly against the back of my head.

  “Good morning,” he whispers.

  The words jolt me more than the hug. He never hugs. Not like this. And his voice is normal. No edge. No heat. Just… Kai.

  “Good morning,” I murmur back.

  Is it? I lie there for a moment and take stock. I don’t feel okay. Not really. But I feel better than yesterday. Better than the day before that. The sharpness has dulled. The constant pressure has eased just enough to notice the difference.

  Maybe that’s all it is. One foot in front of the other. Keep going.

  I think talking helped him. I know it helped me. Hearing him say it out loud pulled some of it out of my chest too. Kai feeling better makes me feel better, and the realization brings a quiet relief I wasn’t expecting.

  I squeeze his arm where it’s wrapped around me. “I hate this room,” I say. “I want to go back to our room. Our home.”

  I feel him nod against me. I untangle myself from Kai and sit up, stretching carefully. My body still complains, but it’s quieter now. The pain that’s been screaming for two weeks has retreated to something distant, like the soreness after a hard training day. Tight. Worked over. Manageable.

  For the first time since waking up in this place, I feel like I need to move.

  I use the bathroom, drink some water, then start stretching properly. Arms. Legs. Core. Each motion loosens something I didn’t realize I’d been holding onto. It feels good. I’d forgotten what that felt like.

  I step into the center of the room and begin moving through the centering forms the instructors drilled into us years ago. They say it steadies the soul. I don’t know about that, but it steadies me.

  My eyes close.

  The movements come easier than I expect, flowing from one into the next without effort. My breathing settles, deep and even. Somewhere in the rhythm, I smile.

  I feel Kai beside me.

  Not touching. Not quite. Just… there. I know where he is without looking. Our timing matches. Our breathing lines up. When I shift, he shifts. When I slow, he slows. It’s familiar in a way that doesn’t need words.

  I vaguely register the door opening. The soft scrape of the table as food is set down. None of it pulls me out of the flow.

  We finish together, movements tapering off naturally until we’re standing still. I open my eyes.

  Kai is facing me. I grab his shoulders without thinking and lean my forehead against his. We stay like that for a moment, breathing each other in, grounded and present.

  Then, without planning to, I say, “We need to fly, my little pigeon.”

  Kai snorts and immediately smacks me lightly in the junk.

  I yelp and collapse backward, laughing despite myself as I hit the floor.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  Playful Kai is a treasure, I think, sprawled out and grinning like an idiot. And for the first time in what feels like forever, I don’t immediately wish the day away.

  She pauses outside the door with the tray balanced against her hip.

  She doesn’t knock right away.

  Inside, the room is quiet in a way it hasn’t been since the boys were brought in. Not the brittle quiet of exhaustion or shock, but something steadier. Rhythmic. She listens for a moment, brow furrowing, and then eases the door open just enough to look inside.

  They’re moving. Both of them.

  Not wildly. Not desperately. Slowly, deliberately, bare feet planted on the stone floor. Their eyes are closed. Their breathing is deep and even, rising and falling together with an almost unsettling precision. One shifts his weight, and the other follows a heartbeat later, like the motion has traveled through the air between them.

  The nurse stills. She’s seen patients stretch. She’s seen physical therapy. She’s seen post-trauma routines meant to coax bodies back into compliance. This isn’t that.

  There’s no instructor correcting them. No counting. No visible cue being exchanged. And yet they’re perfectly aligned, movements flowing into one another without collision or hesitation. When one lifts an arm, the other mirrors it without looking. When one exhales, the other does too. It shouldn’t be possible.

  She holds her breath without realizing it.

  When she finally steps fully inside, the floor creaks softly beneath her shoe. Neither boy reacts. She sets the tray down on the low table, careful not to interrupt whatever fragile balance they’ve found. The faint vibration of the table carries through the room, and she sees it then, the smallest adjustment in their stances, a shared recalibration that keeps them in sync.

  Her throat tightens. These are not boys in acute crisis anymore.

  They’re still injured. Still thin. Still bruised in ways that don’t show on the skin. But they’re present. Oriented. Regulating themselves in a way no medication she’s administered has managed to accomplish.

  She watches until the movements slow and stop, until they face one another, foreheads touching briefly in a gesture so natural it feels almost intrusive to witness.

  That’s when she quietly backs out of the room.

  She closes the door with the same care she’s learned to use over the last few days and stands in the hallway for a long moment, tray empty, heart pounding harder than it should.

  She turns and walks briskly toward the doctor’s office.

  He looks up as she enters, already reading something from a slate. He takes one look at her face and sets it aside.

  “What is it,” he asks.

  She doesn’t sit.

  “I think they’re ready to leave,” she says.

  His eyebrows lift slightly. “That’s a strong recommendation.”

  “I know,” she replies. “I wouldn’t make it if I wasn’t sure.”

  She folds her hands together, grounding herself the way she’s learned to do when emotions threaten to creep into her voice. “They’re moving on their own. Coordinated. Calm. Pain levels are down without intervention. Appetite is still low, but present.”

  “They refused food yesterday,” he notes.

  “They were shut down yesterday,” she counters gently. “Today they’re choosing when to engage and when not to. That’s different.”

  He studies her for a long moment. “You’re convinced proximity is doing most of the work.”

  “Yes,” she says without hesitation. “More than anything we’ve done.”

  He leans back slightly. “And separating them.”

  She shakes her head. “Would be harmful. At least right now.”

  She hesitates, then adds, “Doctor Gil… I’ve watched trauma patients my entire career. When people are broken this badly, they don’t usually find equilibrium on their own. Not without time. Not without guidance.”

  “And these two,” he prompts.

  “They’re finding it together,” she says quietly. “And they’re doing it faster than I can justify keeping them here.”

  He exhales slowly, fingers steepled. “You understand the implications of releasing them back to the Academy.”

  “Yes,” she says. “And I understand the implications of keeping them confined in a place that now represents violation, observation, and loss of control.”

  He looks down at his slate again, then back up at her. “They’re still minors.”

  “They’re also Adepts,” she replies. “And right now, they’re healthier when they’re allowed to choose their own space.”

  Silence stretches between them. Finally, he nods once. “I’ll authorize a provisional release. With conditions.”

  Relief washes through her so sharply she has to steady herself. “Thank you.”

  As she turns to leave, he stops her. “Nurse Smith.”

  She looks back.

  “You were right to speak up,” he says. “Not everyone would have.”

  She offers a small, tired smile. “I’ve learned to listen when patients stop screaming.”

  She returns to the hallway, lighter than she’s felt in days. When she passes the door to the boys’ room again, she hears quiet laughter drift through the wood.

  This time, she doesn’t pause. She smiles and keeps walking, already drafting the orders in her head to send them home.