For a minute, we lie like that, neither willing to move.
There's a wordless agreement—when we stand up, we're at war again.
I say, "One last time?"
He grins.
"Bossy."
"You like it."
He flips me onto my back, his weight pinning me to the mattress.
He kisses me, hard, and I taste the night on his tongue, the salt of sweat and something sweeter, like hope.
After, I shower first, scalding hot, then wrap myself in a towel and watch him dress.
He buttons his shirt with military precision, hiding the scars, the stories.
By the time I'm dressed, he's already in the hall, boots on, face in his hands. I pause, watch him from the doorway.
His shoulders are wide, the line of his back a question mark.
I want to tell him I'm scared, but I can't.
Instead, I say, "You ready?"
He looks up, eyes cold again, the soldier back in place.
"Always."
He kisses me swiftly and leaves the bedroom.
This is part of the performance.
I will meet him at the breakfast table so that those serving there believe we did not spend the night together.
After he leaves, I take a long look at the mirror.
I never understood the old stories about mothers who could lift cars off babies or sprint through fire, not until I caught myself locking every window in the house and mapping out every escape route twice before I'd let myself sleep.
The instinct is not tenderness.
It's calculation.
I am a calculator.
The city is my equation.
The answer is never clean, but it's always true.
When I look in the mirror, I see the line of my jaw, sharp as my mother's used to be, and the hair she left me, a color that can't decide between copper and blood.
The bump isthere now, rounding out my stomach, obvious even when I try to hide it under wool and attitude.
In another world, I'd be glowing.
Here, I am radioactive.
