Vael turns to us.
He looks at me and something in his expression fractures. The fury drains out, replaced by exhaustion, by pain, by something deeper.
“Are you hurt?” he asks.
“No,” I breathe. “You?”
He glances down at his side, where blood stains the fabric. “Just leaking.”
“Sit down,” I say automatically, already reaching for the medpack. “You shouldn’t?—”
“Later.” His gaze flicks to Nessa. “Is she?—?”
“I’m okay,” she says quietly, eyes huge, face pale.
He crouches in front of her, slower now, as if afraid to scare her further. “You did good, cub. Real good.”
She nods, trembling.
Then she whispers, “You came back.”
His throat works once before he answers. “Always.”
She launches herself at him, small arms wrapping around his neck. He holds her tight, one hand cradling the back of her head like she’s something holy.
My knees give out, and I sink to the floor beside them, shaking. The metallic tang of blood mixes with the acrid stink of burned ozone. My ears ring from the gunfire. My whole body’s vibrating with adrenaline.
Vael looks up at me over Nessa’s shoulder. “We need to get out of here.”
“Yeah,” I whisper. “But for a second, let me breathe.”
He nods, and for that second, we all just sit there: a broken soldier, a woman who’s run too long, and a child who deserves a world that isn’t this.
_________________________________________________________________
The hangar lights are off,gone. Only the warning strobes flash—half-dead bulbs humming overhead—and the pit of the crate I’ve dragged into serves as our impromptu medical bay. The smell of machine oil and scorched concrete lingers like smoke over fresh healing. Vael lies on the mattress I found beneath a stack of collapsed cargo pallets, shirt pulled up, wound exposed.
I crouch beside him, med-kit open, sterile wrappings glinting in the red flicker. His breathing is steady but laboured. The scrambler collar is clipped to the strap of his pack now—silent, except for the faint hum I hear when I lean close.
“Good,” I murmur. I press gauze to the torn seam in his shirt, fingertips sticky with blood and sweat, the taste metallic on my lips. “Hold still.”
His head turns slowly and the light catches the bruise beneath his eye—it’s darkened into a map of past battles. He clenches his jaw. “I’ve been still.”
I don’t laugh. I just wrap the bandage tight, tuck in the edge, secure it with the clip. The faint pressure is foreign, not a brace but a bond. His arm brushes my wrist. I freeze.
“Rynn,” he says quietly.
“Yes,” I whisper.
His fingers close over mine. The cold of his body seeping through the mattress hits me like a wave. I want to apologize for everything—the lies, the running, the fear—but the words stick in my throat.
Instead I lean over and press my lips to his forehead, cool skin, still etched with grime. “I’m here,” I say. “We’re here.”
He doesn’t respond, only exhales. The sound shakes me. I swallow.
I sit back, and he sits up, wincing. I brush the hair from his face. There’s a tremor in his cheek. I hover my palm, hesitant to touch but desperate to anchor.
“Give me five minutes,” he says.
