I stay there, forehead pressed against it, breathing like it’s the only thing I remember how to do.
Then I feel him behind me.
No footsteps. Just presence.
A warmth that slips into the room, quiet but solid.
Vael.
He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t need to.
His arms slide around me from behind, slow and steady. One wraps across my shoulders, the other around my waist. He’s still trembling too—his strength isn’t fully back—but his grip is firm. Sure.
He pulls me in against him, my back to his chest, both of us standing there like ruins braced together.
I don’t fight it.
The tears come. Quiet. Not sobbing. Just water. Hot and fast and unrelenting.
He presses his forehead against the back of my neck. His breath is warm.
He doesn’t sayyou’re safe now. He knows better.
Doesn’t sayit’s over, either. Because it’s not.
But he holds me.
His breath slows first.
Not by much—just a small shift, like the tide pulling back an inch from the shore. But it’s enough to ground me. To remind me that we’re still here, still alive, still tethered to something beyond survival.
Vael doesn’t loosen his hold. His arms stay locked around me like the storm might come back any second and try to steal me away. But his heartbeat—yeah. That’s the thing that tells the truth. I feel it through his chest, pulsing steady against my spine.
I let myself lean into him. Really lean. Weight and breath and trust.
Neither of us says anything.
The silence between us isn’t hollow. It’searned.
After a while, he moves just enough to press his lips against the curve of my shoulder. Not rushed. Not hungry. Just… reverent. His mouth is warm, the touch soft. It doesn’t ask for anything.
I don’t move. I let it settle. Let the hush of the ship surround us—vent systems whispering, old wires humming faintly through the walls.
The cot’s too narrow for both of us, but I don’t care. When I turn to face him, our knees bump, and the motion makes him smile—barely, tiredly.
He reaches up and brushes my hair back with one slow sweep of his hand. His knuckles drag lightly across my cheek.
“You still shaking?” he murmurs.
I nod. “Not from fear.”
His gaze lingers on my face. His thumb rests near the edge of my jaw, not pressing, justthere.Like he’s holding the moment more than the skin.
“Good,” he whispers. “'Cause I can’t hold you up much longer.”
I almost laugh. “Lie down, then. I’ll holdyouup.”
He doesn’t argue. Just lowers himself onto the cot like every joint in him has finally given up pretending. I follow, crawling in next to him—awkwardly, a little clumsy in the tight space, but we manage.
