"I'm not made of glass," Meld said quietly.

Rachelle shot him that disdainful, incredulous glare. He was sitting down in a hospital waiting area. She was leaning on the wall, arms crossed.

She reached out, arm brushing his as she snatched up a magazine. A calculated cover. Her feelings slammed through him as gently as a freight train.

He wasn't glass, but he was fragile bone and flesh, and he only had so much life to give away.

Meld leaned against her. I'm not going anywhere. I'm right here.

The reassurance went in. Rachelle sighed and accepted it once again.