A part of me aches.
He doesn’t see me.
And I don’t know if I want him to.
Because if he does, this little space—this stolen, secret moment—ends. It becomessomething. It becomes real. It demands words. Decisions.
Things I’m not ready to give.
Things I don’t knowhowto give.
So I stay.
Just a breath longer.
Long enough to memorize the way he tucks the cloth into his waistband. The way he runs a hand over the power joint, checking connections by feel. The way his brow furrows, not in anger, but concentration.
There’s poetry in him. Not flowery. Not scripted.
But honest.
Worn down and sharp-edged, forged in grief and duty and relentless, infuriating loyalty.
I’m halfway to turning away when he stops humming.
His hand pauses on the mech’s arm.
Then, quiet—barely louder than the fan hum—he says, “You coming in, or just planning to haunt the shadows like a spy?”
My heart stutters.
Heknew.
Of course he did.
I step into the light slowly, arms crossed over my chest like they might hold me together.
“I wasn’t spying,” I say.
His mouth twitches. “Sure.”
I glance at Whiplash’s arm. “You clean that thing more than you shower.”
“Mech hygiene’s a pillar of Vakutan culture,” he deadpans.
I raise an eyebrow. “Is it?”
“No. But you believed me for a second.”
I almost smile. Almost.
“Didn’t think you’d still be up,” I say.
“I don’t sleep much after a fight,” he replies, tone quieter now. “Everything buzzes too loud. Doesn’t shut off.”
“Yeah,” I murmur. “Same.”
Silence settles again. But this one’s gentler. We’re not dodging landmines or dancing around unspoken things. We’re just... here.
