Because for the first time since this all started, I let myself want something.
Not a mission. Not a victory. Just... her. Here. Safe. Breathing.
The knife beside her pillow is more than habit—it’s history. It’s who she had to become to survive. I see it for what it is. But part of me wants to take it away—not because she’s in danger, but because I want her to believe she doesn’t have to be ready anymore. That maybe, just maybe, she could stay asleep without fear.
I close my eyes and try to picture something else. A tomorrow.
We’re not bleeding. We’re not running. We’re not shadow-dancing on rooftops or dodging patrols. We’re just somewhere warm. A shitty apartment maybe—metal walls, real floors, cracked coffee cups in a sink. She’s barefoot, hair down, laughing at some stupid thing I say and telling me I’m an idiot with that half-smile she uses when she doesn’t really want to smile but can’t help it.
I want that.
Gods, I want that more than I’ve wanted anything.
I open my eyes again, and she hasn’t moved.
The knife’s still there.
My fingers twitch.
I reach into my coat, pull out a ration bar. My stomach growls at the scent—salt and synth protein. I don’t eat it. Just hold it. Let the moment be quiet.
“Roja,” she murmurs, voice like gravel and silk.
My head snaps up. “Yeah?”
She doesn’t turn, just shifts slightly under the blanket. “You’re still awake.”
“Didn’t want to sleep through an ambush.”
She huffs a soft laugh. “You think they’ll hit us tonight?”
“Probably not,” I say. “But I’m not betting on probably.”
“You regret it?” she asks. “Sending the files?”
I shake my head. “Never.”
She finally rolls to face me. Her eyes are shadowed but clear. “Even if it gets us both killed?”
“Especially then.”
She nods once, slow and solemn. “Good.”
We don’t say anything for a while.
Then she whispers, “I didn’t think I’d make it this far.”
“You did,” I say.
“And you?”
“I didn’t think I’d care this much.”
She doesn’t respond right away. Then she says, “We’re not built for quiet, are we?”
“Maybe not,” I say, “but I’d like to try.”
She smiles. It’s tiny. Fleeting. Real.
