Knight Syndrome

Ameena

How long does it take for a person to become undone?

They stood in the corridor outside the cabin, dripping. She watched as the rain soaked through everything, her shirt clung to her arms, her hair sticking to her neck. She could hear the others inside, Gorya's laughter, the clatter of someone making tea. The warmth of the cabin bled through the half-open door, golden and close.

Ren stood beside her, wringing water from his sleeve. He hadn't let go of her hand until they'd reached the porch. She'd noticed the exact moment he'd released it and the way his fingers had loosened one at a time, reluctant, as if he was setting down something fragile.

Neither of them moved to go inside.

"Your hair," he said quietly.

She felt his hand before she understood what he was doing. His fingers moved through the wet strands that had plastered across her forehead, pushing them back, away from her face. The gesture was gentle. Absent. As if he'd done it without deciding to.

Ameena stopped breathing.

Not from the cold. Not from the wet clothes or the wind that cut through the corridor. From the fact that no one had touched her like that in years. Not since her sister used to braid her hair at night, humming some half-remembered song while Ameena pretended to be asleep.

Her body locked. Every trained instinct flared at once, threat assessment, proximity alert, too close, too close — but underneath the noise, something older and quieter said: stay.

Ren's hand stilled. She watched the realization move across his face after what he'd done, the line he'd crossed. His fingers hovered near her temple, suspended in the space between intention and retreat.

"Sorry," he said. The word was barely audible over the rain hammering the roof.

She couldn't speak. If she opened her mouth, she didn't know what would come out. So she shook her head once. Don't be.

They stood there, close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating from his chest despite the cold. Two people who had spent their entire lives perfecting the art of not being touched.

Go inside, she told herself. Damage control. Smile, say goodnight, close the door.

She didn't move.

By midnight, the storm had settled into a steady downpour, and both of them had settled into matching fevers.

Ameena sat on the floor of the small room she'd been assigned, blanket pulled to her chin, shivering. Every few minutes, a sneeze ripped through her, followed by a cough that rattled her ribs. Through the thin wall, she could hear Ren doing the same as if they were carrying on a conversation in illness.

A knock. The door opened before she could answer, and Ren appeared holding a glass of water and a small brown bottle.

"Cough syrup," he said, setting both on the floor beside her. "Take two spoonfuls."

Ameena stared at the bottle. It was small, unremarkable. A generic brand, the kind you'd find in any medicine cabinet. The kind that came in different labels and different boxes but always the same thick, sweet liquid inside.

Her stomach turned.

"No."

Ren blinked. "What?"

"I said no." She pushed the bottle away from her, harder than she'd meant to. It slid across the wooden floor and knocked against the wall. "I won't take it. The syrup. Not that. Not any of it."