I don’t trust my voice. I whisper, “I will always come back.”
He presses his forehead to mine. The world outside hums with engines and life, but here, in the workshop, it’s just us. Just heat, just memory, just claim.
I let him steady me. My hair smells of grease and metal and fire. My heart pulses in alignment with the circuits he’s repairing beside me.
He doesn’t ask forgiveness. He doesn’t demand proof. He just holds me.
And I stand, leaning into him, refusing to let go.
CHAPTER 28
TAKHISS
We walk beneath strings of lanterns, between stalls of sizzling grills and hover-engine parts. The smell of fried spice and hot metal fills the air, heat drifting off glowing plates of masonry. Vex is strapped to Ella’s hip in a sling; when he squalls, she hands him to me without a word. My heart stutters at the weight I carry—the small body, warm in my arms. He presses closer; the hiccup fades. He settles against my chest like he belongs there, like he’s always known this place. I stroke his hair, lean down, press a light kiss to his forehead. I say nothing. She doesn’t ask.
We pass by shops selling pipe fittings and neon filaments, mini-furnaces baking alloys in display windows. I watch her watch everything—calculating, cautious in brightness. She’s wary, as though she expects me to vanish. I will not. I stifle a longing so deep it tastes like ash.
“Its good to see you steady,” she says quietly.
I shift Vex, cradle him more comfortably. “You worry I’ll vanish?”
She doesn’t answer. We keep walking.
When we return to Dad’s yard, there are cabs lined up like battered soldiers. Their bodies bear scars —bursts, dents, scorched paint. Three of them still lie crippled. I roll up sleeves, lean over the first underbelly. The iron smell cuts tight. Circuits glow low. Coolant arcs faint green.
Ella brings dinner out on a tray — protein slabs, roasted tubers, local greens. Dad sets a battered bowl in front of me.
“No chair big enough for you,” he grunts.
I drop to the ground. The floor’s cold, concrete. Bits of grease and metal shavings under my palms. I feel the grit in my knuckles. I dig in, lean over the cab chassis. She sits at the table, watching me like she’s watching a stranger become home.
“Your hands still shake?” she asks softly.
“Less.” My voice echoes off metal.
Dad waves a spoon at me. “Eat before it gets cold, soldier.”
I look up, into her eyes, then into the bowl. I eat. Silently.
Between bites she says, “Grandpa’s been on edge. Worried about us.”
I nod. “I get it.”
Dad grunts. “So talk, Takhiss. What did you bring back besides bones and threats?”
I swallow. I tell them about small things. Prison doesn’t matter now. I omit weight; omit fear. I talk about dreams: the corridors, the silence, the memorizing of my own name. I describe the scent of stale air, the hum of machines, the way wanting her kept me alive. My voice cracks. Dad clears his throat. He doesn’t say much. But the silence is a chasm we both cross.
I laugh when Dad tells an old joke about a hovercab engine that refused to start—makes me sound human. It tastes odd in my mouth, rusty and new. Ella smiles, almost soft. Vex squirms on my lap. The moment holds.
After dinner, I carry Vex to the couch. His legs kick, eyes drowsy. Ella hums a lullaby I half-remember from my own childhood. I sit in signal light — no proper chair — and watch her rock him. My hands curl into fists at my side.
The night stretches. Crickets chirp, distant traffic hums. The yard is dark except for lanterns bouncing off cab bodies. Ella moves to the window, watching. I slip beside her. Quiet steps.
She doesn’t speak. I don’t either. We just stand. Between us, memory and want hover.
She says, voice small: “I didn’t think I could feel safe again.”
I swallow. I reach and tilt her chin. “You deserve safety. I’ll build it.”
