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It was pouring.
Rain hammered against the narrow windows of the med bay, turning the world beyond the stone walls into a shifting blur of black and grey. Cold seeped through the room, biting through Dragan’s soaked clothes until the fabric clung unpleasantly to his skin.
The med bays were little more than bare stone chambers where the wounded were dragged when someone decided they were worth saving. Schnabel’s instruments still lay scattered across the desk, untouched since he’d retired to bed not long ago. Beside them, a stack of notes had begun to curl at the edges, the ink bleeding where rainwater had dripped from Dragan’s sleeves.
Morte sat on the examination table, water pooling beneath their boots and dripping steadily onto the floor. Their shirt was nearly transparent with rain, plastered to their skin as they sat in silence.
“That was fun, wasn’t it?” Morte finally said.
Dragan stared at them.
They were acting as though nothing had happened. As though they weren’t two coworkers who had just spent the last several minutes making out in the rain, slamming each other against the outer walls of the towers, hands grasping and shoving as each of them fought for the upper hand.
As though Dragan hadn’t dragged them halfway across the compound by their soaking-wet shirt and into the med bay before he could do something even more stupid.
“Shut up.”
Morte’s smile widened.
There it was.
That fucking smile.
Dragan hated it.
He hated Morte for existing. Hated the way they looked at him with that knowing, unsettling expression, as though they could peel him apart without ever laying a hand on him. Hated their resemblance to Raven—the shape of their face, certain expressions, the occasional tilt of their head that sent something ugly twisting through his stomach.
He hated the way Morte followed him around. Always there. Always watching. Like a ghost that had decided it preferred his company.
And yet—
He couldn’t deny that he had needed Morte.
He had needed the release.
Needed the violence of it. The rain. The struggle. The sensation of finally having something beneath his hands instead of reaching endlessly for something always just beyond his grasp.
Control.
That was what it was.
At least, that was what he told himself.
For once, he had been the one deciding where things went. He had been the one pushing forward, the one refusing to give ground. There had been no pleading, no chasing, no desperate attempt to make someone stay.
Just the simple, intoxicating certainty that he had the upper hand.
God, how pathetic.
His entire life had been one long reach toward someone else. Someone to hold. Someone to choose him. Someone tangible enough that he could convince himself they belonged to him.
And the more he thought about it, the more humiliating it became.
Because when his mouth had crashed against Morte’s, all he had been able to think about was that feeling.
Power.
Freedom.
The strange relief of having someone beneath him when he had spent the better part of his life chasing after someone who was always ahead of him. Someone he could never quite catch. Someone he had convinced himself was his salvation.
Raven.
For a few brief moments, Morte had made it easy to forget her.
That was the worst part.
Not the kissing. Not the freezing rain. Not even the fact that Morte was standing three feet away from him now with that infuriating smile.
It was how easy it had been to forget her, even if it had only been for a minute.
“Shut up, Morte,” Dragan muttered. He turned sharply toward the cabinets, yanking one open after another until he found the linens. “And don’t talk about this. Ever.”
“Why?” Morte asked innocently. “Embarrassed?”
Dragan threw a towel at their face.
“Dry yourself.”
Morte caught it with a quiet laugh.
Dragan grabbed another for himself and began working it through his hair, methodically rubbing away the rain. He kept his eyes down the entire time.
He refused to look at them.
Because looking at Morte meant seeing Raven.
And seeing Raven meant remembering.
He didn’t want to picture Raven underneath him.
Didn’t want to imagine what it would feel like to have her pinned beneath his hands, her breath catching against his mouth, her body finally yielding instead of slipping away from him.
He didn’t want to wonder whether it would feel better.
And he didn’t want to wonder whether he’d prefer Morte over her.