His eyes narrow, but not with anger.
Curiosity.
Maybe even hope.
“You gonna admit it?” he asks.
I shake my head. “No. But I’m not running either.”
His smile spreads slow and dangerous. “That’s a start.”
We settle into an uneasy truce after that. He stays on his side of the bay—mostly. I run diagnostics on Whiplash’s leg actuators. The storm rages louder. At one point, a support strutsomewhere deep in the walls creaks loud enough to make me flinch.
“You scared?” he calls over his shoulder.
“Of structural collapse? Yes. Of you? Never.”
“You should be.”
“Why? Gonna lecture me about torque sensors again?”
“No,” he says, and when I glance over, he’s watching me with something darker in his eyes. “Because I’m not good at sitting still.”
An hour passes.
Then two.
The lights dim as the emergency grid activates to conserve energy. The air gets warmer, heavier. I strip off the outer layer of my coveralls, left in a black tank that sticks to my back with sweat.
Naull watches, eyes tracking every movement. I pretend not to notice. I fail.
“I can feel your ego from here,” I mutter.
“You love it.”
“You wish.”
He stands and stretches, cracking his neck. His tail flicks once behind him, and I hate that I know that means he’s antsy.
“This storm’s not dying down anytime soon,” he says.
I glance at the display. “Six more hours.”
“Gonna be a long night.”
“You volunteering for patrol duty?”
“Not unless it involves patrollingyou.”
I throw a wrench at him. He catches it with one hand, grinning.
Eventually, I sit on the floor, back against a support beam. I’m too tired to pace. Too wired to sleep. Naull sits across from me, close enough that our knees almost touch.
“You ever get tired of pretending?” I ask softly.
He tilts his head. “Pretending what?”
“That none of this scares you. The war. The meld. Me.”
