His grip tightens just a little. Not because he’s afraid. Because he understands.
I rest my free hand over his. “I used to think healing meant erasing. Wiping everything clean. Getting back to how things werebefore.”
“And now?”
“Now I think healing is what you buildafter.”
We stand there for a long time, wrapped in starlight and old pain and something sharp and beautiful that hasn’t dulled with time.
Eventually, I say, “Do you ever miss the war?”
Naull doesn’t answer right away. His fingers flex against my stomach.
“Sometimes,” he says finally. “Not the killing. Not the loss. But theclarity. Everything made sense when it was life or death.”
I nod. “Now it’s diapers and lesson plans and diplomatic forums.”
“Terrifying,” he deadpans.
I laugh. A real laugh. Loud and unfiltered. It startles a bird off the rooftop nearby.
Naull chuckles against my ear. “There it is.”
“There what is?”
“That laugh. I don’t hear it enough.”
“I’m trying,” I whisper.
“I know.”
He spins me around gently, hands resting low on my back. I look up into those molten eyes and see everything we survived written there—loss, loyalty, love. I see myself reflected, older and softer and still kind of a disaster.
He brushes a knuckle down my cheek. “You’re not broken, you know.”
“Neither are you.”
His smile flickers. “Work in progress.”
“Aren’t we all.”
We don’t kiss. Not right away.
We just breathe.
The door clicks shut behind us.
It’s late—whatever that means on Rhavadaz, where time bends around chaos and comms schedules. Outside, the storms sleep. Inside, the world is quiet.
Naull watches me like I’m starlight and minefield all at once. I stand by the edge of the cot, fingers brushing the hem of my tank, heart thudding somewhere near my throat.
“I’m not fragile,” I say, voice soft but firm.
“I never thought you were,” he murmurs.
His steps are slow, deliberate, like he’s afraid I’ll vanish if he moves too fast. But he’s close enough now for me to feel the heat radiating off his skin, the low hum of his pulse like distant thunder. His scales shimmer faintly under the room’s low lights—copper-red where they catch the glow, almost black where they curve beneath his jaw.
I reach up, fingertips tracing along the line of his collarbone. He exhales like I’ve punched the breath from his lungs.
