He doesn’t answer. That’s answer enough.
“I felt it,” I repeat, quieter. “You weren’t scared of the sim. Or the threat. You were scared of losing control. Ofmeseeing it.”
His throat bobs. “I’m not used to being seen.”
“Well,” I say, “you’re gonna have to get used to it.”
A pause.
Then he does something I don’t expect—he laughs. Just a breathy, bitter sound.
“You sound like my sister.”
I blink. “You never told me you had one.”
“Didn’t know if you wanted to know.”
I lean against the sink again, softer now. “Try me.”
Naull’s eyes flicker. Then he lowers himself to sit on the bench along the wall, the tension in his shoulders easing a fraction.
“She was younger. Smarter than me. Fierce. Had this way of making you feel like you belonged even when you didn’t. She used to fix busted drones with broken tools and pure spite.” Hesmiles faintly. “When she died, I tried to pretend like it didn’t affect me. Like I could punch the grief into submission.’”
I let the silence linger before I speak. “How long has she been gone?”
He nods. “Years ago.”
I swallow. “I’m sorry.”
He shrugs, but it’s not casual. It’s armor. “Wasn’t your fault.”
“No. But it explains a lot.”
He glances up, brows lifting.
“Why you push so hard. Why you react before you think. You don’t just fight because you want to win. You fight because you don’t want to lose anyone else.”
His eyes drop to the floor. “Is that what it feels like to you? Losing me?”
I hesitate. The words catch in my throat, tangled with everything I haven’t said.
“Yes.”
He meets my gaze. Something raw and real passes between us, no tech, no neural tethers. Just... human and Vakutan. Pilot and engineer. Messy and trying.
“I’m sorry,” he says again, and this time, I hear the break in it.
“I know,” I say. “So am I.”
A long pause.
He pushes off the bench and steps closer. Not towering. Not overwhelming. Just... there.
“You didn’t file the abort either,” he says.
“No,” I agree. “I didn’t.”
His lips twitch. “So what does that mean?”
