The Touch That Burns

The storm broke just after midnight.

Rain lashed against the stone windows of the monastery, thunder snarling like something alive. The hallways were nearly silent—except for the sound of Amelia's bare feet moving down the dark corridor, her pulse louder than the storm itself.

She couldn't sleep. Couldn't think. Every breath felt stolen.

Echo was quieter now, watching from somewhere deeper in her mind. Not speaking. Just waiting. But it wasn't Echo that haunted Amelia tonight—it was Kestrel.

That look he'd given her earlier, when he brushed her hand while scanning the neural relay. Not accidental. Not innocent. A look that asked questions with no words.

She stopped outside the observatory door, the one that overlooked the shattered valley below. Light flickered underneath. He was still inside.

She hesitated.

Then opened it.

Kestrel didn't turn as she stepped in. He stood near the tall windows, lightning flashing across his face. There was a tightness in his shoulders, his stance alert, as if ready for something—or someone.

"You should be asleep," he said quietly.

"So should you," Amelia replied, voice low.

He finally looked at her. There was something unreadable in his eyes. Not cold. Not warm.

But… alive. More than she'd seen in him since his return.

"I keep seeing the vault," he said. "Every time I close my eyes. The red light. The countdown. I didn't think I'd make it out."

She stepped closer. "But you did."

He gave a slow nod. "Not all of me."

The air shifted. Lightning cracked again outside, white-blue across the ceiling.

"You've changed," she said. "You look the same, but… something's different."

Kestrel didn't answer. Instead, he stepped toward her—one slow, measured step. His voice dropped an octave.

"And what about you, Amelia? You keep saying you're fine. But you're not. I see it in your hands. In your eyes."

She felt heat rise in her chest. "Everyone keeps looking at me like I'm a threat."

"No," he said, eyes darkening. "Like you're slipping away."

Amelia's throat tightened.

"You're stronger now," he continued. "But there's a wildness to you. You move like something inside you is always running."

She took a breath, sharp and shallow. "And you don't like that?"

"I didn't say that." His gaze flicked to her lips, then back to her eyes. "I think it's…

dangerous. And I think I'd follow you anyway."

There it was.

The silence that followed felt like the crack before glass breaks.

Amelia's voice was barely a whisper. "You shouldn't say things like that."

"Why not?"

"Because Dominic—"

"Isn't here," Kestrel said. "And we both know this isn't about him."

Lightning flashed again, illuminating the space between them. The air was charged, electric with unsaid things. Her skin prickled.

He took another step.

Now just inches from her.

She could smell the rain in his clothes, the smoke from the data tower clinging faintly to his skin. She hated how much she noticed.

Hated that she was this aware.

"Say it," Kestrel murmured.

Amelia shook her head.

"Say you haven't thought about it," he continued, voice low and ragged. "What it would feel like. If I touched you again."

She didn't move.

Couldn't.

Kestrel reached up slowly—fingers brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. His hand lingered, palm warm against her cheek. She leaned into it without meaning to.

"I remember you," he whispered. "Before the program. Before they started carving pieces out of us. You laughed more. You hated sugar in your coffee. You used to hum when you were scared."

Her breath caught. "You're not supposed to remember that."

"I never stopped."

Amelia stepped back then, breaking contact. Her body was trembling—anger, fear, desire—she couldn't tell which. Maybe all three.

"You don't get to come back from the dead and act like nothing happened," she snapped, voice cracking. "You left. You died. And now you're looking at me like you want to start something you're too afraid to finish."

Kestrel's expression shifted.

"I'm not afraid," he said.

"Prove it," she challenged.

The words hung in the air, sharp and reckless.

He moved.

Fast.

His hands were in her hair, his mouth crushing against hers with years of restrained memory. It wasn't gentle. It wasn't clean. It was wild and furious and real—the kind of kiss that stripped layers back to bone.

She kissed him back.

Harder.

For a second, she let go. Of the protocols. Of Dominic. Of Echo. Of the woman she was before all of this.

Just heat and hunger and something broken pulling itself together.

And then—

The door burst open.

Dominic.

His eyes locked on them. His face froze.

He didn't speak. Didn't blink. Just stared at the two of them, her lips still parted, Kestrel's hands still half-raised.

Amelia stepped back.

"Dom—" she started.

He turned and walked away.

Silent.

Amelia stood in the stillness, breath shallow, chest aching.

She looked at Kestrel. He didn't say anything either. Just lowered his hands and stepped back into shadow.

In her room later, alone in the dark, Amelia pressed her fingers to her lips. The taste of Kestrel lingered. But deeper than that—an echo pulsed in the back of her skull.

"You see?" Echo whispered.

"You are already more than one. And he felt it. He kissed the part of you that was me."

Amelia's eyes burned.

She didn't sleep that night.