She turns. Her face is fierce and fragile. “Don’t. Just don’t.”
I swallow, stepping closer. The smell of her—her skin, her clothes, the air she inhabits—fills me. I step into her space.
“Let me try to fix this,” I say, voice raw. “I have nothing left but truth now.”
We stand a breath apart. The comm folder in my pocket is weight. The stripped rank, the threats, the chaos—they converge behind me. But right now, I stand in her doorway.
She steps back. “I don’t know if I can trust words again.” Her voice shakes. “You said you’d protect us. You said you’d fight for truth. And then you lied.”
I feel every syllable in my chest. I nod. “I know. I failed you. I failed her. But that lie had to end. I can’t rebuild with another falsehood. Only with truth.”
She exhales, tired, uncertain. The rain taps the window. Outside, the night breathes.
In the quiet, she lifts her gaze to me. “You said you’d never choose duty over me again.” Her voice is a question and a plea.
I step forward. The threshold between us narrows. I take her hand. It’s cold. She doesn’t pull away.
The electric hum of the city presses beyond walls. In this apartment, broken and scarred, the door is open again. Thesilence between us trembles. The lie has shattered. The truth burns.
And perhaps, tonight, that is enough for a beginning.
CHAPTER 55
AMY
Imove quietly in the kitchen, the kettle’s hiss a soft companion to the tension. The air smells of water heating, steam rising, a faint trace of jasmine sachets I tucked by the counter. My fingers wrap around a ceramic mug as the kettle clicks off. I carry the steaming cup into the living room, where Darun sits rigid, expression blank, shadows under his eyes. The apartment is hushed, full of raw possibility.
Libra appears and crawls across the carpet toward him. She climbs into his lap, legs folded, body small but steady. He wrinkles his brow in surprise, then slides his arms around her. She rests her head against his chest. The muffled hum of her breathing settles the room.
Darun’s shoulders shake first lightly, then in widening tremors. I stand aside, hands clutching the mug, watching him. He doesn’t push her away. He doesn’t freeze. He lets the tears come.
“They took everything,” he whispers, voice ragged, as though the phrase bleeds from deep inside. His claws press into his jeans. Libra’s small face is turned upward at him, eyebrows furrowed.
I step forward, hand trembling. I sit beside them. The tea steams between us. I slide the mug onto the low table, reach, and lay a hand on his leg. His cheek is wet. I don’t pull away.
I answer softly: “Not everything.”
He catches my gaze. The hurt, the disbelief, the burden in his eyes—pain and pleading in equal measure. “What’s left?” he asks, voice brittle.
“Her. Me.” I gesture gently toward Libra. The little shape tucked into him, breathing steady. “You are here. You cried. That counts for something.” My voice is small, fragile, but real.
He closes his eyes momentarily, jaw tensing. Then he speaks slow, like each word weighs. “I want to stay. I don’t want to walk away again.”
My heart ricochets. I study his face. The lines of pain, the shame, the determination pressed behind his eyes. Part of me aches to master every fear he ever felt. Part knows falling again is always possible.
“If you want to stay,” I say carefully, “then stay. Be here. Every day. Not just for me—but for her.” I nod toward our daughter. Libra shifts in his lap, snuggles closer.
Tears glint in his eyes. He nods once. His voice cracks: “I promise.”
I swallow a tremor. Because this time it doesn’t feel like a vow in danger; it feels like soil beneath my feet. Something soft, tentative, maybe enough to build on.
We sit together—him, her, me—for hours. The night wind hums outside. The apartment is warm, scented by the tea that’s gone cold and the pastel light of the lamps. We talk in whispers: regrets, fears, what we mean to each other. He names mistakes. I name the hurt he left. We lie open in words.
Libra drifts off asleep in Darun’s arms. He tucks her close. I pour more tea, warm, careful. The steam trails between us likea bridge. My lips press to the top of the mug, tasting water, memory, possibility.
When the night stretches thin and the city beyond hums low, I curl beside them. Darun reaches an arm across my shoulders. I press my head to his chest. The rise and fall of him, real and breathing, soothes something that’s raw.
I whisper, “Thank you for staying.”
