The lab door hissed open in front of him, and Karen's first thought was too soft—like the world was trying to muffle what came next.
The hallway was distant, clatters and hums didn't just fade away; they died. The silence pressed into his chest, and it wasn't empty, it was locked, caged, couldn't feel. Couldn't feel the edges, person in making in all this breath, like he might break if we exhaled too wrong. Dark walls absorb the light, not black but felt like it was closing in, flour so smooth that you could see his own reflection, price that really blinked anymore.
Everything was too clean—no stacked papers, no coffee ring, no signs that anyone working there like a real professor would—just a sterile environment that left a bitter taste in his mouth. He
froze, every nerve in his body fluid forming with something that wasn't quite right, but wasn't wrong either.
The stiff fabric on his shirt rubbed against his skin, a constant, annoying reminder of where he was, of why he had been called here. The medication in his veins coursed, slow bitters squeezing his chest until he couldn't breathe, and his temples throbbed in time with his pulse—thump—thump—thump—as his heart hammered against his ribs.
He breathed in the air, hit him hard, total from the lab equipment from a ceramic mug on the desk, and blood is faint but unmistakably from scrubs in his arm and smells wrong.
Broken, weak, like he has been pulled apart and put together in a way that didn't feel like him.
Then it hit him: roses—not the fake kind in the campus planters, but real, sweet, little, wild-picked, fresh, instead of the clone in a pot. Papers too, thick, rough kinds of old genres that left ink on your finger, ink that smelled like rain and midnight and things that he couldn't name or imagine.
His breath cut so hard, a choke on it, his heart slammed against his ribs so fast that he thought it would tear through, thump, thump, thump, like it had woken up from a long sleep and remembered something it was never supposed to remember. The tightness in his skull was gone, warm and sudden, and his shoulder slumped, his knees weak, and his legs trembled, and he had to catch himself on the wall before he hit the floor, his body leaning towards this scent before his brain could catch up.He jerked
upright so fast that his neck twitched, jaw clenched until his teeth ached, his fingers curled into fists, nails digging into his palm enough to draw new blood.
He
actually took a full breath, the first real breath he had all day, and it terrified him because of how good it felt. His body reacted like it had been starving, and the scent was the only thing keeping him from collapsing. Of the source of the scent was him.
Professor Aris Vaughn did not move or ask Karien to move forward. His hands were folded on the desk, spine so straight it looked painful, eyes fixed on Karien like he was studying a sample under a microscope. He looked at Karien not as a lecturer. Karien had seen lecturers, and they always looked at him like he was a lecturer like them, and Aris Vaughn was looking at him like a doctor that fixes things.He looked
delicate for a man who handled primarchs: slim frame, steady movement, perfect posture. "Mr. Stryker," Aris said quietly, without lifting his head, his tone was calm like a gentle breeze, "you are four minutes late. That kind of punctuality won't work here."
Karien's jaw locked, the scent was making him feel better, trying to seep into his bones, but at first his voice was steady, "I answer only to Lord Vahn, and not to you."
Only then did Aris finally look at him; his purple eyes swept over his body slowly, as if he were studying Karen. It took him time to admire Karien from head to toe. Karien could feel the heat rising under his skin from being openly examined; his cheeks flushed bright pink. "Karien Stryker," he called again, "you look better standing." There was something soft in his voice, something hypothetical, that made it so soothing to Karien's ears, and it made butterflies in his tummy. He pressed his fingers together, nails digging into his palm. "Don't you dare," he told himself, "don't dare feel anything for this man you don't know."
"You don't know me," he said, and the words came out from his mouth sharper than he meant them. Aris's lip curled into a warm smile. "I know," he said, "I know how you have suffered and thrived to save your soldiers." Karien's muscle tensed so hard his spine felt like it might snap, and he stood rigid, every inch of him screaming don't look at me that way, but he couldn't look away.
Aris stepped around the deck, and his hand hovered near Karien's elbow, not touching but close enough to make him feel the warmth on his skin. He could see the silver ring on his finger catching the light, a spark from Aris's touch running along Karien's veins, chasing away the code of the medication, and he had to bite his tongue to keep him from making a sound that was very embarrassing.
Then the hand was gone, and cold rushed back in so fast he shivered. He sucked in air before it could escape, his chest heaving, his legs trembling so hard he could barely keep them closed. "I
hope
now you feel better," Aris whispered, and his breath brushed against Karien's ear. "No," Karien said, forcing the words from his mouth, and his voice cracked and shook, but he clenched them tighter anyway, trying to hold on to the anger, the only thing that kept him from falling apart.
Aris
stepped back at one deliberate pace. Relief washed over Karien, but it left him with raw, empty, aching space. His bones ached, his chest hurt. He wanted to leave, but he wanted to stay more.
A
screen flickered alive behind Aris, a chart glowing green, holographic data spinning in the air—a clear layout of his research history—but Aris didn't look at it. He kept looking and watching Karien as he breathed. "Tomorrow," he said, "at the same time. We need to finish our discussion tomorrow."
Karien opened the lock faster than his brain realized, leg first, thoughts scrambled and messy, lungs still arching from the pressure of that scent. He walked towards the door, towards the hallway, towards his own office that felt miles away.
Behind him, Aries' voice was soft and warm: "Rest tonight; you won't sleep well without going back early and without me." He walked out. The hallway hit him hard. The tightness in his head exploded into pain sharp and fast, the medication from his veins again, metallic and bitter. But this scent lingered anyway, faint, impossible, pulling at every nerve, every part of him that still remembers how it felt.
His finger tightened around the ring in his pocket, the one his so-called husband gave him, silver and cold with a tiny rose carved on the band, and knew exactly where it had come from. He didn't just want to admit it, his skin prickled, nails beating into flesh. He wanted to tear it off and throw it away, wanted to hold it tight and never let it go, wanted nothing, wanted everything, but he couldn't decide what he wanted.
Somewhere in the shadows, a voice drifted low and raw, like grave and smoke. "Soon," the voice said.