“Can’t promise anything out here,” I mutter.
She hums. A low sound. Not quite a song. Not quite nothing.
We don’t talk after that. Not for a while.
We just sit in the wreckage, side by side, breathing the same air, bleeding under the same stars, and pretending—just for now—that we’re not two people who should hate each other.
Pretending we’re not still at war.
CHAPTER 13
AMY
My stomach is trying to eat itself.
It’s past hunger—gone straight to the teeth-gritting, stomach-acid-hissing phase. We’re down to one ration pack between us, and I’ve been staring at it for the last ten minutes like it’s going to multiply if I glare hard enough.
It doesn’t.
Darun’s sitting cross-legged near what used to be a wall. His back’s to the wind, arms folded across that massive chest like he’s sculpted from leftover fury. The silver glint of the bandages on his shoulder catches the starlight. Still bleeding, maybe. He hasn’t said a word about it since I patched him up.
I dig into my pack and pull out the last ration. The wrapper crinkles loud in the dead silence, like I just committed a felony. I look over at him. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t even look.
“Hey,” I say. “You hungry?”
“Don’t be stupid,” he grunts.
“I’m serious.”
“You’re smaller. You eat.”
I arch a brow. “Wow. Generous and insulting in one sentence. Impressive.”
He exhales sharp through his nose. “Just eat.”
I tear the pack open and the smell hits me—salty, synthetic, vaguely nutty. Protein mush. Probably Alzhon-manufactured. It’s the kind of food designed to keep you alive, not happy.
I scoop out a bite with the edge of the wrapper and chew. It’s dry. Chalky. The aftertaste is something like copper and fake lemon. My body groans in grateful agony anyway.
I take another bite, then fold the top down and toss the rest toward him.
It lands beside his boot.
He looks at it like it’s a bomb.
“I said eat,” I tell him. “Unless you’re planning on carrying me the rest of the way when I collapse.”
He doesn’t move.
I sigh. “Fine. If you die of stubbornness, I’m not writing you a nice epitaph.”
That gets a twitch. Then he picks up the wrapper.
“Half?” he asks.
I nod. “I’m not a martyr.”
He eats slowly, like he’s not sure he trusts the food. Or maybe me. But he finishes it. Doesn’t say thank you. The silence is different now. Less survival. More… shared oxygen.
