That night, I sit on the windowsill while he sleeps. The night air slips in under the frame, cool and sharp against my skin. The scarf’s still around my neck, even in the dark.
He shifts in bed, makes a low sound. I smile to myself. This isn’t what I planned. But gods, it’s starting to feel like home.
I’m mid-stretch, hands braced on the windowsill, one leg kicked up against the frame to work out the knot in my hip when I see it.
At first, I think it’s something of his. Roja’s always carrying scrap—bits of old wire, bent bolts, little tech charms that should’ve been trashed. But this isn’t junk. It’s placed. Intentional.
Right there, on the narrow shelf above my dresser, nestled between my hair clip and his spare comm charger, is a small carved figure. About the size of my palm. It’s smooth and dark—some kind of burnished wood, not local. The curves are clean, deliberate. The edges polished to a dull glow.
It’s me.
The shape of the body is right. Compact, hips flared like mine, arms outstretched. And there—curling up from one hand, frozen in a delicate arc—is a carved flame ribbon. So fine I almost miss it.
I blink. My throat gets tight for no good reason.
Roja doesn’t say anything. He just watches me from the bed, head propped on one elbow, face unreadable.
I cross to the shelf and pick it up with both hands, careful not to drop it.
“You—” My voice cracks. I clear it. “You made this?”
He shrugs one shoulder, eyes sliding away. “Had scraps. Needed something to do with my hands.”
“Roja.” I turn it over. The detail in the face isn’t exact, but the spirit of it—my stance, the way I hold the ribbon—gods, it’s right.
“How long did this take?”
“Couple nights.” He pauses. “Used to carve. Long time ago.”
I run my thumb over the flame. “It’s beautiful.”
He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t need to.
I walk back and kneel beside the bed. His eyes flick to mine, then down to the figure I still hold like it might vanish if I blink.
“You carved me.”
Another shrug. “Didn’t know who else to make.”
I lean in and press my forehead to his chest, the rough slide of his scales grounding me. He smells like soap and metal and the musk I’ve come to crave.
He brushes his hand up my spine. “You mad?”
“No,” I whisper. “I just… you see me like this?”
His voice drops to a rumble. “I see everything, Kelsea. Every spark. Every edge.”
I laugh, watery. “You soft bastard.”
“You gonna cry on me?”
“Shut up.”
He tugs me into bed, arms folding around me like steel cables. The figure stays in my hand. I don’t want to put it down yet.
“I never had anything like this,” I admit quietly.
“Now you do.”
