After, we spill out of the fort into a sunlit room. The cushions scattered. The real world returns. I watch Amy pick up haphazard fabric, arrange pillows. Her movements are calm. The kitchen smells of toast, coffee. The city outside hums low.
Libra wants to show off Tanky. She drags the toy into the open. Amy and I exchange a look. The child of war and hope, playing in living rooms. It feels fragile and right.
Later, I sit beside Amy on the couch. The lights dim. City glow through blinds. The air smells faintly of rain on pavement, of life stirred. I rest my palm near hers. My voice cracks: “I never thought I’d have this.”
She turns, meets me. “Neither did I.” Tears glint in her eyes. Her lips twist. She reaches for me. I draw closer. I feel the curves of her shoulder, hair brushing my hand.
We speak of timelines. She breathes soft, “If we do this—public, real—you’ll be exposed. But you deserve more than a shadow.” Her voice is steady.
I nod. “I want appearances. I want to be known, not just a ghost in context. I want our name beside the truth.” I glance away, voice soft: “Maybe even someday… more. Kids.” The words slip out.
She freezes. Her face drains, then floods. She looks away fast. “We’ll talk,” she says, a tremor. Her fumbling changes the topic. I don’t press.
I look at her, in the half-light. I want to lean in, take her hand, start again. But I wait. I don’t force. Trust isn’t built with rushed confession. It’s stretched over time.
Night. The apartment breathes quiet. I lie beside Libra, her small form curled next to me. Her warm weight against my side. Her hand curls around my tail, light pressure. I feel it—a tether. I turn slightly, see Amy standing in the doorway, watching us. She’s silhouetted: soft features, skin against lamp glow, eyes heavy-lidded.
She’s silent. The hush thick. I don’t ask her to enter. She doesn’t speak. She stands, witnesses this landscape we’re trying to build. Two lives, one child, truth unspoken yet. In her eyes I read apology, love, and promise.
She whispers, voice cracked, “Soon. I’ll tell you everything. Soon.” The words drift. I swallow hard.
She slides away. The door clicks. Light fades. The hush returns.
I inhale. The scent of fabric, sleep, her hair faint in the air. The weight of silence doesn’t crush—it holds.
I settle. Libra breathes in dreams. The secret glimmers behind my ribs. But tonight, I hold what is here—warmth, presence, fragile trust. And in the darkness, I believe we can survive telling it.
CHAPTER 39
AMY
The air in Rex’s office feels electric—like the moment just before lightning strikes. Holoscreens glow behind him, but the room is otherwise dim. The scent of old coffee and scanner heat lingers. I stand at the edge of the big desk, palms pressed flat, feeling the coolness of the glass and metal under my skin. My heart hammers as I look at him.
“Darun,” I say, voice steady but hollow. “I want him in the prime-time slot. A full, uncut interview. Let him speak on his own terms.”
Rex folds his fingers together, leans forward. His eyes flick to the slate on his desk—metrics, red flags, sponsor logos blinking. He says slowly, “You realize what that means. Exposure, pushback, legal nightmares.” He steeples his fingers. “Only if he’s compelling. If he can carry a narrative, not just tragedy.”
I lift my chin. “He is both. But he’s more than that. People deserve to see him—not as a wounded shell, but as something alive, something transformed.”
Rex exhales, rubbing the stubble on his cheek. “All right. One week. We schedule. Legal oversight. Production buffers. If it leaks early, we shut it down.”
I nod, voice quiet but fierce: “Deal.”
His face softens a fraction. “I’ll bet on you—and on him. But tread carefully.”
From his office to my car, I replay that moment. The tension, that itch in my chest. I grip the steering wheel so hard my knuckles whiten. Outside, the city lights blur past.
Home is soft. The apartment is warm; evening light seeps through slats, pooling on the floor. I set a bottle of cheap wine on the table—ruby swirl, cheap but honest. The smell of garlic bread warms the kitchen. I open jars, pull out olives and cheese. No sweeping feast. Something simple. Something human.
Darun hovers by the kitchen counter, apron half on. He stirs sauce in a pot, steam lifting, tangy tomato mixed with sweet spice. The scent curls into my chest. I join him, spoon in hand. He hands me the jar of olives. The air sizzles, soft with promise.
Libra bursts in wearing bits of glitter and yarn: her sign, the lopsided “DARRUNN SHOW!” is now taped over the kitchen doorframe. She beams with pride. “I made it perfect!” she says, hands on hips. She’s sticky from glue, dusted glitter in hair. Her eyes still carry wonder.
We laugh. Darun raises a spoon to her. “A taste of chef’s special?” She nods fiercely. We feed her, watching her small teeth chew, the sauce dangling. The world is loud outside. Inside is warm.
Later, the three of us—Darun, Libra, me—sit at the little table. The candles flicker. Wine glints red. Potatoes roasted. The conversation was tender and real. Darun asks Libra about school. She tells jokes. Darun listens like each word is a gem. I watch him. I watch her. I feel something heavy in my heart lighten.
After dinner, after dishes, we drift to the couch. The city beyond the windows glows, cars hum, distant sirens fade. Libra curls into cushions and finds her coloring book. The apartment quietly hums around us.
