That’s what we do. Like some terrible rhythm—push, pull, snap. Just when I think we’ve figured out how to be in sync, he overloads. And I react. Always the reactor. The one who flinches. The one who pulls back.
The one who runs.
I slam my palm against the sink’s rim, hard. The impact vibrates up my arm.
I hate this.
Not just the argument.
Thealmost. The ache that builds up between us like pressure under tectonic plates. Waiting. Always waiting for the next crack.
A voice clears behind me. Low. Gruff. Familiar.
“I didn’t mean to push you that hard.”
I stiffen.
Naull stands at the doorway, still in his Meld rig, the chest piece clutched in one hand like he’s not sure whether to hold it or throw it. His hair’s damp with sweat, sticking to his temple. His eyes, normally burning bright, are dimmer now. Smeared with guilt.
“I didn’t file the abort,” he says quietly, like that’s supposed to mean something.
And maybe it does.
I inhale through my nose, steady, trying to keep my voice from shaking. “You overloaded the neural relay. Again.”
He doesn’t deny it. “I know.”
“We could’ve crashed the whole sim.”
“I know.”
I whip around to face him, anger curling in my chest like smoke. “Do you know how that feels? To have your head jacked into someone else’s storm without warning?”
His jaw tightens. “Yeah. I do.”
“Then why do you keep doing it?”
“Because I can’t—” He breaks off, running a hand through his hair. His fingers tremble. “I can’t help it sometimes. The fight kicks in, and it’s like I can’t throttle down. I see the threat. I act. Ihaveto.”
“Even if you take me down with you?”
That hits. I see it in the way he flinches, like I just kicked his ribs.
“I don’t want to hurt you, Aria,” he says, voice wrecked. “Gods, that’s the last thing I want.”
I believe him. But that’s not enough.
“I know you don’t,” I say, quieter now. “But this—this Meld—it’s not just you reacting and me keeping up. It’s both of us. Together. You can’t dominate it and expect me to just sync without consequences.”
He leans back against the bulkhead, exhaling hard.
A silence stretches. It isn’t angry this time. Just… exhausted.
“You said something in the Meld,” I murmur, eyes flicking to the floor. “You didn’t say it out loud, but I felt it.”
He looks up. “What?”
“You were scared.”
