Chapter Four

Hospitals were always cold. Even with the sun slanting through the high windows, warm and golden like something from a memory, the walls stayed sterile. Stiff sheets, pale gowns, machines humming like distant insects. Malachai stood outside the operating prep room, heart in his throat. He had no reason to be here, officially. Claris wasn’t his patient. He wasn’t even a doctor yet. But his hands were in his coat pockets, clenched into fists, and he’d promised—he had promised—to water the flower.

The door opened with a slow creak. Claris sat on the edge of the bed, legs swinging gently, barefoot. The hospital bracelet glinted on his wrist, a thin band of cold plastic. But his smile was warm.

“You showed up, Mala-Chai.” Mal didn’t say anything right away. He stepped forward, one hand rubbing the back of his neck. Claris had been experimenting with nicknames, this was the "ultimate winner" for soundinglike chai tea.

“Just wanted to check on the flower.”

“Liar,” Claris murmured, soft. “You came to see me.” Mal didn’t deny it. They sat in silence for a moment. The world outside the room was ticking forward—nurses walking, clipboards clattering, the sound of wheels on tile. But inside, everything stilled. Claris held out his hand. Mal hesitated. Then reached out, lacing their fingers gently. Claris’s grip was light, but sure.

“I’ve got a thing,” he said, voice low, “for nerds with glasses.”

Mal stared at him, blinking once.

“I’m serious.” Claris gave a tired half-grin. “You look like you read dictionaries for fun. And your accent’s a bit posh. I like it. Makes me feel like I’m watching one of those BBC channels, but this reporter is especially cute.”

“That’s not a– wait, you think I'm cute?” Mal said, but he didn’t let go. Claris exhaled, leaning his head back against the wall. Mal imagined what he looked like right then, frumpled clothes, no tie, eye bags ever-present.

“I think... After this, I’ll have time. Like real time. To decide where I go. Who I’ll be. With who.” Mal looked down at their hands.

“Isn’t that funny?” Claris murmured. “That they cut you open and fix something inside you, and you wake up feeling more alive than before?”

Mal swallowed. “Yeah.”

“They said it’ll take a few hours. You’ll keep my flower safe?”

“I promise.” Their hands stayed linked for a beat longer. Then the nurse came in, clipboard in hand, face gentle. Claris gave Mal one last smile—small, brave, just a little scared.

Then he was wheeled away.