I close my eyes. Breathe in. Let my thoughts slow. Not silence—just space.
Then I reach.
My mind brushes hers like fingertips over static glass. She jerks—just a mental flinch—but I wait. Soften. No jokes. No bluster.
Justme.
I let her feel it. The chaos. The heat. But also the pulse beneath it. The steel-core steadiness I keep buried under bravado. The part of me that never left a fallen squadmate behind. The part that remembers names, even when it hurts.
For a heartbeat—two—I feelherreaching back.
Precision. Fire. Grief knotted so deep I almost cry from it. Her mind is a machine of glass and lightning. Beautiful. Brutal. Brilliant.
The sync flickers green.
Then red.
Then static.
Aria rips the cap off, gasping.
“Dammit!”
I exhale, blinking hard. “That was closer.”
She shakes her head. “It’s not enough.”
“It’s a start.”
“We need to be ready by morning,” she snaps.
“And wewillbe.”
She stares at me. “How can you be so sure?”
“Because,” I say, rising and walking around the console to face her again. “When we fight together, evenwithoutthe Meld... it still feels like we’re in sync.”
She doesn’t answer.
She just stands there, chest rising and falling, hands clenched.
“You’re scared,” I say, not as an insult. Just a truth.
She doesn’t deny it.
“You think letting me in means letting your guard down. That I’ll see something you don’t want me to see.”
I step closer, close enough to feel the heat off her skin.
“I’ve already seen it, Aria. The fire. The brilliance. The loyalty that burns so bright it could blind a god. And I wantmore.Not to use. Not to break. Just toknow.”
Her breath catches.
And then, just for a second, she leans forward.
Not much.
But enough.
