We’re quiet again. But it’s not the same kind of silence as before. This one has shape. Texture. It doesn’t feel like it’s swallowing us whole. Just... hanging around.
I lean back beside her, our shoulders barely touching. She doesn’t pull away.
Outside, the street murmurs on.
Inside, we just breathe.
And for the first time in longer than I care to admit, it doesn’t feel like the whole galaxy’s trying to rip itself apart.
CHAPTER 9
KELSEA
It sneaks up on me.
That feeling—like maybe I’m allowed to want something. Like maybe the floor won’t fall out the second I stop watching for it.
I wake up the next morning tangled in sheets that smell like fireproof mesh and him. The scarf’s still looped around the bedpost, his scent clinging to it like a secret. I don’t bury my face in it. Not at first. I just stare, fingers twitching at my side, stomach coiled like wire. I know better than to get used to things. But still, I wrap it around my shoulders before I leave.
My body moves without asking. I stretch longer in the prep room. I tweak my routines. Add more spins. More heat. I practice until my calves cramp and my wrists sting, ignoring the burn, chasing the rhythm like it might tell me something I’m too afraid to ask out loud.
Ceera watches me from the corner, her stim burning low and lazy.
“Alright, firefly,” she mutters, cocking a hip, “who the hell got under your skin?”
I snort and keep spinning. “Nobody.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Please. You’re moving like you’ve got a private audience. Somebody put stars in your veins?”
I glance down at my wrist, at the spot where the scarf brushes against bare skin. “Just working on control.”
She exhales smoke toward the ceiling. “That’s not control, babe. That’s fire trying not to burn the room down.”
I say nothing.
She shrugs and walks out. But I see it—the glance she throws over her shoulder. Like she’s curious. Like she cares more than she lets on. Ceera's not nosy. Not really. But she’s been around too many broken things not to recognize when one starts gluing itself back together.
Later, I catch sight of him across the street. Roja. Leaning against a vendor cart, arms crossed, watching the steam rise off grilled synth-meat like it owes him an answer. He doesn’t look at me. Not directly. But he doesn’t walk away either.
And gods help me, I’m glad.
That night, I don’t wait for him. I just leave the window unlatched. The scarf folded at the foot of the bed. A quiet invitation. No promises. No pressure.
He doesn’t come.
But I dream of him anyway. Of his weight. His breath. The sound of claws against old tile. I wake up hot and aching, my fingers curled tight in empty sheets.
The next time I see him, he brings food. Doesn’t say a word. Just hands me a sealed carton of street dumplings and a drink with my favorite blend—hibiscus tea and citrus. I blink, startled.
“How’d you know?” I ask.
He shrugs. “You looked like you needed something warm.”
We eat in silence. Not awkward. Just… easy. Like the edges of the world smooth out when we don’t try so hard.
When he leaves, I don’t ask him to stay.
But I think about it.
