The word cleared lands with less ceremony than I expect, delivered in Alice’s calm, clinical voice like she is telling me the time rather than handing me back my autonomy, and I sit there for a second staring at her because my body does not quite trust it yet. Adam is standing near the door, arms folded, posture deceptively relaxed, and I can feel the bond tighten the instant Alice says it, like he has been holding himself in check for days and finally has permission to exhale.
“Cleared,” Alice repeats, as if she knows I need to hear it twice. “No training. No patrols. No sparring. Light movement only. And if you get dizzy, you stop.”
“I can do that,” I say quickly, because the idea of anyone changing their mind feels unacceptable now that the possibility of leaving the hospital wing is
