The old man leans against a wall, power wrench in hand, arms crossed. His eyes flick to me, assessing, weighing. Vex sits in Ella’s lap nearby, staring. His jaw is so small. His eyes wide with that flicker of recognition, before he looks away.
I fight down a tremor in my fingers. I’ve smashed bones, broken weapons, stared down suns. I’ve never felt this terrified. Not before a breach. Not before a battle. Never before standing unarmed in a home that’s not mine.
Ella stands between us and the living room. Her face is tight, wary. She doesn’t speak. Doesn’t invite me. Doesn’t shut me out either. That’s progress.
We circle each other like wounded wolves. Careful steps. Cautious looks.
Her father grunts.
I say abruptly. “I want to stay. With her. With him.”
He scoffs. “Don’t get used to softness.”
Ella lifts her hand, palm outward. “Just… hear him first?”
I exhale. “Thank you.”
Her eyes flick to Vex. He shifts, skin flickering—scales under skin. I don’t react. I don’t lunge. I kneel in front of him, voice low: “You are perfect. Just like your mother.”
He stares blankly, small fingers flexing. Ella’s breath catches.
The old man scoffs under his breath, but doesn’t interrupt.
I don’t know how to proceed. The air is heavy. Words taste like metal.
Ella finally says, “I don’t know what to believe or how we rebuild. But… you’re here. That matters.”
I lift my head. My throat aches. “I will show you I belong here.”
She nods slowly. It’s fragile, like a seed in cracked soil.
That night I don’t sleep in her bed. I don’t deserve to yet.
I go to the alley one block over, directly in sight of her window. A corner by a dumpster and a flickering holo-sign. The smell is sour—old food, spilled fuel, damp stone—but the vantage point is perfect. I tuck myself into the shadow, wrapping my coat tight. I am not a guest. I am a sentry.
Midnight passes. The city hum dwindles to low thunder in the distance. I think of Vex’s face, Ella’s voice. I hear their laughter in memory.
A soft shuffle nearby. I sit up instantly, hand reaching for a weapon I no longer carry.
But it's her.
A blanket is draped across my lap. A ration bar placed beside me.
I inhale. Her scent—linen, tears, something like wildflower tangled with grease.
Ella steps back into the light of the alley. Her boots echo on cobblestones. She doesn’t smile. She doesn’t promise. She just kneels beside me.
“You deserve rest,” she whispers.
I look at the blanket. The bar. The weight of her inches away.
“Don’t,” I murmur.
She presses the blanket further. “I won’t argue tonight. Just stay.”
I wrap the fabric around my shoulders. It smells like her.
She tucks the ends, sits back. The distance is small now. The city light flickers.
