Cassian drags his chair in front of her, just like she did on his first day on Veneskar. All those months ago. Mirian looks alarmed. “What are you doing?” “Give me your hand.” If she doesn’t give it, she at least doesn’t pull away—but her eyes are fixed on him, wide, wary, exhausted. Cassian rolls up her sleeve to reveal the little red crescents, some almost faded and others raised and angry. He smoothes them over with the towel. “It doesn’t need cleaning.” “You did for me.” “That was different. This is pointless.” Washing. Drying. He tries to conjure Mirian’s clear-eyed focus during first-aid, waits for the low-grade panic to yield to something like bliss under pressure. But it’s stubborn. His heartbeat rolls like drums in his ears and each shaky breath reminds him hers are numbered. And he’s always been better at hurting than healing, anyway. Petrogel. Gauze. Her chair hits the wall with a crack as Mirian jumps to her feet. Puffs of dust settle over their boots. “Dove?” “I’m already helping you,” she says with a reproachful look. Cassian frowns. “I’m grateful.” “Do you think I’m a liar?” “No.” “You think I’d break my word?” He stands. “Never.” “Then what do you want?” Her voice breaks; her chest heaves. Cassian wipes the sweat from her brow and resumes wrapping her hand. “You got calls tomorrow? … I’ll take them.” She straightens, eyes flashing and ready to argue. Cassian squeezes her arm. “You’re gonna feel like shit. Stay home. Rest—” His fingers ghost over the bandage on her neck. “—Don’t tear yourself up, okay? I’ve got you.” His words of comfort have the opposite effect. Mirian shifts like a cornered animal looking for an out. Her breaths are ragged. She avoids his eyes while her own well with tears. “Talk to me.” “I didn’t want to do it like this.” Struggling to speak. She’s been outrunning the panic all day, Cassian realizes. All week, longer. It’s caught up to her now with nowhere to go. He leans back an inch, like that’ll let her run again. “I don’t know how.” “Let me.” He wipes away the first tear to fall. “I’m not gone yet, huh? Let me take care of you.” His fingers linger on her cheek, trace the scar beneath her eye, brush her hair from her face. Mirian covers his hand with hers. “Why are you doing all this?” Cassian’s never been fluent in that language of glances. Codes, ciphers, maps with no legends, the chafings of a mind imprisoned landing like seeds on his infertile face. Not like Mirian, who looked at him once and seemed to know his whole life. She has to know now. He wills words—all of them—into a glance she can read. But she seems not to hear. His eyes are a dead end. So Cassian brings her hand to his lips, grazing like the slightest push will shatter her like glass, scatter her to the wind. How will he find her then? “I want what I can’t have, Dove.” —Everywhere and nowhere. His voice is thick; it’s hard to talk when the air’s so heavy. And she needs it more than he does. “Let me… Let me have it a little longer.”