She huffs a laugh, soft and tired. Her hand pauses over my heart.
“Do you think we’re ready?” she asks.
I don’t answer right away. Let the quiet stretch between us. The suite’s soundproofed, but I can still feel the weight of the orbital station humming around us—systems cycling, gravity stabilizers thrumming low and constant.
“No,” I finally say. “But we’re willing.”
She lifts her head just enough to meet my gaze. Her eyes are shadowed in the low light, deep brown with specks of gold that catch even the faintest reflection. “That supposed to be comforting?”
“Supposed to be honest.”
She presses her forehead to mine. “I can’t tell if that’s more terrifying or more perfect.”
“Why not both?”
A laugh catches in her throat. “Gods, I hate how much sense that makes.”
We fall quiet again. Not the kind of silence that begs to be filled. Just breathing. Just existing.
The Meld flickers between us now without warning. Not the full sync—no neural bands, no artificial bridge. Just little pulses. Glimpses. I’ll think something—about the way Garma curls his tail when he dreams, or how Aria’s laugh feels like gravity flipped—and she’ll shift, smile, hum like she felt it too. Because she did.
The connection’s not perfect. It glitches. It misfires.
But it’s real.
She closes her eyes, fingers resuming their slow path down my chest. “He’s going to ask soon.”
I know what she means.
Garma.
Where we go next. Who we are. Why we kept fighting.
And we won’t have easy answers.
“Whatever we tell him,” I say, “we tell him together.”
“Even the ugly parts?”
I nod. “Especially those.”
She exhales, long and slow, and for a second I think she might drift off.
Then, just when I think sleep has claimed her?—
“Marry me someday.”
The words are quiet. Almost timid.
I blink, eyes snapping open.
I turn my head, just enough to see her face.
She’s not smiling. Not exactly. She looks… terrified. Hopeful.
Like maybe she meant to think it, not say it.
And it slipped through the Meld anyway.
