“But smooth.”
I scoff. “You spun the mech like a carnival ride andscreamedthe entire time.”
“Victory screech,” he corrects.
“I have the audio logs, Naull. You yelled ‘hell yeah’ for fourteen seconds straight.”
He leans in, fangs just visible. “And yet... you’re still here. Still patching Whiplash’s guts. Still talking to me instead of filing for reassignment.”
I grit my teeth. “I haven’t ruled it out.”
“Liar.”
“Arrogant ass.”
His smile widens. “Flatterer.”
We’re standing too close. Way too close. I can see the tiny scar along his cheekbone, the flecks of darker red along his collarbone, the way his pupils dilate when he stares at my mouth.
I should step back.
I don’t.
Instead, I grab a rag from my belt and slap it hard against his chest. “Here. Wipe the soot off. You’re making the place look unprofessional.”
He snorts, but takes it. His fingers brush mine. Just for a second. Just long enough.
The moment hangs between us, suspended like static right before a lightning strike.
Then a distant alarm chimes—low, pulsing.
Status check warning.
My comm flickers to life on my wrist. "Gustfront forming. Surface storms intensifying. Secure all gear and personnel."
I exhale, stepping away before I can talk myself out of it. “Stormfront’s early. Again.”
“Perfect timing,” Naull says, stretching. “Just got bored.”
I roll my eyes so hard it’s a miracle I don’t pull something. “Let’s just get Whiplash into lockdown before the winds peel the roof off.”
He follows me back to the mech, a silent sentinel at my six. It’s unsettling how good we are at moving together in momentslike this. No words needed. Just motion, sync, unspoken queues. Even when we’re not Melded, our rhythms match.
Too well.
I secure the exterior panels while he fastens the restraint clamps. The whole bay groans around us, the air pressure already thickening as the storm sweeps closer. Whiplash hums beneath my fingertips, familiar and alive.
“She responds to you,” Naull says quietly, without looking up.
I freeze.
“What?”
“Whiplash. She listens to you.”
I swallow. “That’s... she listens toyou, Naull. She’s coded to your biometrics.”
“She’s more than code,” he says, glancing at me. “You know that.”
