The question hits harder than it should. “Yeah. I guess I did.”
“And are you happy? With what you built?”
I open my mouth to give some flippant answer. Some joke about conspiracy theories and viral content and living my best crazy life.
The truth comes out instead. “No. Not really. I’m… surviving. But surviving isn’t the same as living.”
K is quiet for a moment. Then he rises and crosses to my pallet, settling beside me with careful deliberation.
“I do not want you to merely survive, Mara.” He says it with such simple certainty that my chest aches. “You deserve more than that.”
“Yeah, well… We don’t always get what we deserve.”
“No. But perhaps—” He reaches out, fingertips brushing a strand of my hair. Blue at the tips, fading to black at the roots. “Perhaps we can choose what we build.”
My breath catches. “K—”
“Why is your hair this color?” he asks suddenly, genuine curiosity in his voice. “The blue. Is it… natural? Or chosen?”
A laugh bubbles up despite everything. “Chosen. Very chosen. It’s dye. You know… artificial color? I change it every few months depending on my mood.”
“Your mood?”
“Yeah. I’ve been blue, purple, pink, green… one very regrettable stint with orange that made me look like a traffic cone.” I touch the blue strands self-consciously. It’s almost grown out now, my natural black overwhelming the tint. “This was my ‘Blue Period.’ Like Picasso. Except instead of painting sad people, I just dyed my hair and hunted down aliens.”
“Picasso and aliens…” His voice is musing, but he doesn’t press further. He studies the strands between his fingers with fascination. “It suits you. Bold. Unexpected. Entirely yourself.”
The compliment lands softer than it should. Warmer.
“Thanks,” I whisper.
His hand slides from my hair to cup my face. Thumb brushing my cheekbone with that same tenderness from this morning at the stream.
“You are brave, Mara Jones.” His voice drops lower. “Braver than you know.”
“I’m really not—”
“You survived a life of upheaval. Loneliness. And still you laugh. Still you find joy in small things. Still you…” He pauses, searching for words. “Still you care. About others. About truth. About protecting people even when it costs you.”
My throat tightens. “How do you know I’m protecting people?”
“Because I see it.” His eyes hold mine. “The way you avoid questions. The way you keep secrets even from me. You carry weight you will not share. Protect knowledge you cannot speak.” His thumb traces my jaw. “It is honorable. And exhausting. And I wish—”
“What?” I breathe.
“I wish you did not have to carry it alone.”
Something snaps inside me. A decision made without thinking.
I kiss him.
Not gentle like this morning. This is desperate, hungry, all the want I’ve been suppressing for days pouring out at once.
He responds immediately. His hand slides into my hair, cupping the back of my head as he deepens the kiss. His other arm wraps around my waist, pulling me against him, and I feel the solid warmth of his body, the heat radiating from his skin even through layers of fabric.
It’s not enough.
My hands move to his shirt, tugging at the laces. He helps, pulling it over his head in one smooth motion.
