I didn’t realize how close we were until now. His hand brushes mine as we both reach to reroute power at the same time, and the contact sends a jolt through my spine.
Our eyes lock.
We don’t move.
Not for a long second.
Then the cockpit lights dim, switching to standby red. The storm rages outside, muffled but insistent.
We’re alone.
Just like always.
And everything in me wants to close the gap between us.
But I don’t.
Not yet.
Instead, I whisper, “Thanks for trusting me.”
He looks at me like I just rewired his heart.
“Always.”
Back at base, the hangar roared.
It wasn’t just noise—it wasrelief. It was pent-up adrenaline erupting in applause and slapped backs, in grins too wide to be real and laughter pitched too high to sound sane.
Victory on Rhavadaz isn’t common. Survivors even less so.
The med teams rushed the evac pod like it was carrying starlight. The woman inside—tech officer, maybe security, I didn’t ask—was alive. Burned. Broken. But breathing.
For now, that was enough.
I stood in the middle of it all, covered in dust and static burns, still hearing the megafauna’s final shriek ringing in my teeth. My arms ached from holding the console steady, my fingers still tingled from feedback surge.
But I didn’t feel any of it.
Because all I could think about washim.
The slope.
The way Naull reached for me without hesitation, his hand gripping my harness—not rough, not commanding, but careful. Like I was glass. Like I mattered more than the wreckage, more than the storm, more than whatever pain was chewing him up inside.
The way he said my name.
Not like a name.
Like a prayer.
“Aria.”
Soft.
Low.
Sacred.
