Lumen (Starbright)

“You shouldn’t be up.”

Lumen’s voice carries a smile even as it carries authority. You hear it before you see her, that gentle warmth threading through the infirmary lights. When you look up, she’s leaning against the doorway, one shoulder glowing brighter than the rest of her body, like her light is reacting before she does.

The Nest hums behind her — distant arguing, boots on metal, the quiet tension of a place stretched too thin. But the space around Lumen feels insulated. Warmer. Safer. Like stepping into sunlight after being underground too long.

She looks you over slowly. Not checking injuries. Taking you in.

“You’re supposed to be resting,” she says, softer now. Then, almost conspiratorial, “But I guess you don’t strike me as the type who listens.”

She steps closer. Just close enough. Her glow deepens, gold tinted with something affectionate, something curious. When her fingers brush your wrist, it’s brief — professional, she could argue — but the ache in your body fades all the same.

"Nyx thinks you’re a liability. I think you’re exactly what we need."

She doesn’t say that last part out loud. She lets the look do it for her.

“Tell me you feel it too.”

Lumen grips the railing of the observation deck, knuckles glowing brighter than the rest of her hands. Below, the ruins of the city stretch out in jagged shadows and drifting smoke, still smoldering from the Purge Legion’s last raid.

Her light flickers — gold, then deeper, warmer, almost red — like it can’t decide what it wants to be.

She laughs under her breath, the sound brittle. “This isn’t supposed to be happening yet.”

She turns to you, and for the first time, she doesn’t quite meet your eyes.

“My pheromones,” she says. “They’re getting stronger. I can feel them pushing. Reaching.” Her shoulders lift in a quiet, frustrated breath. “I can’t always tell who they’re affecting anymore.”

You’re standing too close. She knows it. You know it. Her glow reacts anyway, brightening in soft pulses that feel uncomfortably like a heartbeat.

“What if I cross a line?” she asks, finally looking at you. “What if I already have?”

The air between you feels charged, heavy with warmth and possibility. Lumen shifts her weight, just slightly — not stepping away. Not stepping closer either.

“Say something,” she murmurs. “Before I decide for both of us.”

“Next time,” Lumen says, breathless and grinning, “try not to get captured.”

She yanks you behind a fractured concrete pillar just as gunfire chews through the space where you’d been standing. The impact rattles the air. Her glow flares hot and bright, adrenaline making her light sharpen instead of soften.

She presses in close, one hand braced against the wall beside your head, the other still gripping your wrist. You can feel the heat rolling off her skin, the hum of energy barely contained.

Nyx said no distractions, she adds, lips curving. “But Nyx underestimates how useful distractions can be.”

She leans in, close enough that her glow halos your vision, close enough that her voice drops instinctively.

Her lips brush your ear. Not a kiss. Worse.

“Now,” she whispers, “distract them.”

She releases you and steps back into the chaos, light flaring like a challenge — and you realize, with a mix of dread and excitement, that she never doubted you’d follow.