I shake my head. “Not yet.”
He lowers himself to the foot of the bed, close but not touching. “You’re not safe here,” he says after a while. “Jark’s getting hotter by the hour.”
“You think I don’t know that?”
“I think you pretend you don’t care.”
I shoot him a look. “And you pretend you’re not still one wrong step away from snapping someone’s neck.”
His jaw tightens. “That was another life.”
“No,” I say quietly. “It’s still there. Just like mine.”
The silence returns, heavier this time.
I glance down at the scarf. “I used to sleep with a knife under my pillow. Still do, most nights.”
“I know.”
“Do you?” I look up. “Do you know what it’s like, wondering if every knock at the door is the one that ends it?”
“Yes,” he says, so softly I barely hear it.
I set the scarf aside. My palms are damp.
“I can’t keep doing this,” I say. “The pretending. The mask. The fear.”
Roja leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Then don’t.”
I stare at him.
He lifts his eyes, and for once, there’s no shield between us. No shadows. Just a man with too many ghosts and not enough time to bury them.
“I’m not good at soft things,” he murmurs. “I never learned how to be close without breaking everything I touch.”
“I’m not asking for a fairytale.”
“What are you asking for?”
“Just… take the armor off. For one night. Let me see you.”
He doesn’t answer, but his throat bobs as he swallows hard.
I stand and close the space between us, then reach for the hem of his shirt. He catches my hand.
“You sure?”
“No,” I say. “But I’m here anyway.”
He lets go.
I lift the shirt over his head slowly, letting my hands memorize the rough skin, the scars. There’s one over his ribs that curves like a question mark.
“What did this?” I ask, brushing it with my fingers.
“Acid shrapnel. Black sector riot. Took two pints of synth-blood and half a rib.”
I don’t flinch. I just nod.
