I nod. “Yeah. I’m here.”
And I mean it.
We run another simulation—this time through a simulated wind vortex chamber. The AI throws megafauna at us in triplicate, each beast a writhing mass of claws and roar. Whiplash dances through them like we’ve been training for this all our lives. Naull’s movements are wild but precise; I tether them with counterbalance and strategy. I expect it to fall apart at any second, like it always used to, but it doesn’t.
It holds.
We hold.
When we land the final blow—twin whips decapitating the lead kaiju—Whiplash locks into a three-point stance and the system pings:Perfect sync achieved.
I exhale like I’ve been holding my breath for a decade.
“We did it,” I murmur.
Naull doesn’t say anything right away. Then: “You didn’t brace.”
“What?”
“You didn’t brace when we entered the vortex.”
I blink. “Didn’t need to.”
He hums. “Yeah. Guess not.”
There’s a pause. Not awkward. Just full of everything unspoken.
“Good session,” I say.
“Yeah.”
But neither of us moves to disconnect.
Whiplash hums around us. The meld space is still open, low and warm like the coals of a fire burning down.
I shift in my seat, suddenly aware of how close we are—not physically, not just, but mentally. Emotionally. We’re in each other now. Deeper than any proximity has ever gone.
He doesn’t hide behind jokes or swagger. I don’t wall myself behind sarcasm or silence.
And it terrifies me.
Because I know what comes next.
We’ve opened the door.
We either walk through it… or we slam it shut.
“I should go run diagnostics,” I say, already reaching for the neural cap.
But his voice stops me.
“Aria.”
It’s soft. No command. No cocky edge.
Just my name.
And I freeze.
