It was already late, the quiet hum of the starrail filling the small room with a steady, lulling rhythm.
Yuel helped Rory settle into bed, drawing the blanket up around her shoulders with deliberate care, as though she were something fragile and precious. His movements were slow, gentle—lingering just long enough to make it clear he didn't want to leave, even as he forced himself to step back.
"I won't disturb you anymore," he said softly, his voice low and calm. "You should rest."
As he turned toward the table where his flowerpot waited, Rory reached out and caught his hand before he could pull away.
"How long until you're fully recovered?" she asked, her voice quiet but sincere.
Yuel paused, then leaned down, brushing his fingertips lightly along her cheek. The touch was tender, reverent, as if he were memorizing the warmth of her skin.
"When my first flower blooms," he replied. "That's when I'll be whole again."
Three more days.
