the Second Separation

The warmth of Eden's hand in his felt like coming home to a place he'd never been. Their fingers fit together with a familiarity that defied logic, each point of contact sending sparks of recognition through Lenard's entire being. The emergency lights still pulsed their crimson warning, casting alternating shadows across Eden's face – illuminating then hiding that mysterious scar above her eyebrow, making her silver hair shimmer like mercury in moonlight.

But rationality began to seep back in, cold and insistent as the institute's recycled air. What was he doing? Standing in a restricted area, holding the hand of Dr. Eden Hayes – *the* Dr. Hayes, whose research he'd only ever read in classified briefings, whose presence in the facility was spoken of with reverent whispers among lower-level staff.

His fingers twitched in her grasp.

"I..." The word caught in his throat as he watched her eyes widen fractionally, as if she sensed what he was about to do. Those eyes – green as spring leaves, deep as ancient waters – why did they make his chest ache with such specific melancholy?

Lenard pulled his hand away.

The loss was immediate and staggering. His palm tingled with phantom warmth, fingers curling involuntarily around the memory of her touch. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, suddenly too harsh, too real, drowning out the lingering scent of hydrangeas that couldn't possibly be there.

"This is..." He stepped back, watching hurt flash across her features before professionalism masked it. "This is inappropriate. I shouldn't be here."

Eden's left hand remained suspended between them for a moment, fingers slightly curled as if trying to hold onto something that was already gone. The emergency lights painted her pale skin in alternating waves of shadow and blood-red glows, making her seem both solid and spectral at once.

"Of course," she managed, but her voice held a tremor that seemed to resonate with something deep in Lenard's chest. "You're right, Mr. Oakway."

*Mr. Oakway*. The formality felt wrong, like a dissonant note in a familiar song. He watched her draw herself up, watched the brilliant researcher replace whatever this other thing was – this impossible thing that had sparked between them.

"I'm sorry, Miss Hayes." The words tumbled out, formal and inadequate. They tasted like ash in his mouth, wrong as a lie. "I should get back to work."

He turned too quickly, nearly knocking over the forgotten coffee maker. The machine's quiet beeping seemed to mock him, counting out seconds of hesitation he couldn't afford. His security clearance, his job, his rational understanding of the world – all of it depended on walking away from this impossible moment.

Eden opened her mouth, then closed it. Words gathered behind her lips – *stay, wait, please* – but none of them made sense. How could she ask a stranger to stay? How could she explain that watching him walk away felt like losing something vital, something precious? That the absence of his hand in hers felt like a wound reopening?

The break room door hissed shut behind him, leaving Eden alone with the crimson pulse of emergency lights and the quiet hum of machinery. Her left hand pressed against her chest, trying to ease an ache she couldn't name. The scent of his cologne lingered – something classic, with notes of cedar and rain – mixing with the sterile institute air in a way that made her eyes sting.

"Ridiculous," she whispered to the empty room, but her voice shook. "You don't even know him."

But that wasn't quite true, was it? The thought slipped through her mind like smoke, impossible to grasp. She knew the weight of his hand in hers, knew it like she knew her own heartbeat. Knew the exact shade of his dark eyes, knew they could crinkle at the corners when he smiled, though she hadn't seen him smile. Not today. Not that she remembered.

In the corridor, Lenard leaned against the wall, right hand pressed flat against the cool surface to stop its trembling. The rational part of his brain was already constructing explanations – stress, lack of sleep, the strange energy from the runes affecting his judgment. But deeper down, in places that dealt in truths rather than facts, he knew.

He'd just let go of something irreplaceable.

Again.

The thought made no sense – there was no 'again.' There was only now, only this moment, only the growing distance between himself and a woman he'd never met before today. Only the irrational, overwhelming urge to turn around, to run back, to grasp her hand and never let go.

The emergency lights continued their crimson pulse, and somewhere in the depths of the facility, ancient machinery stirred. But for now, two people stood separated by a door and a lifetime of carefully constructed forgetting, each nursing an emptiness in their hands that logic said shouldn't exist.

Their coffee grew cold on the break room counter, steam rising like the ghosts of words left unspoken.