“Then burn,” I whisper back, tugging him down.
Time fractures.
There’s onlysensation.
His mouth at my throat. My nails at his back. The weightlessness turning us into constellations. Every touch like a promise. Every sound like a secret.
He touches me like I’m holy.
Like this isn’t the end of the world, but thestartof something.
I’ve never needed someone like this. Not with desperation. Not with reverence.
And when I come apart in his arms—clutching, gasping, shaking—it’s not just from pleasure.
It’s fromeverything.
The war. The loss. The damn Meld that made me feel things I can’t unfeel.
It’s him.
Justhim.
Afterward, we stay pressed together, floating, his fingers brushing lazy circles against my thigh, our foreheads touching.
He doesn’t speak.
Neither do I.
Because words would break it.
Because this—this stolen moment of fire and gravity and breath—is too fragile to name.
And maybe that’s okay.
Maybe naming it would mean letting it end.
It’s still red.
The whole room glows like it’s bleeding—emergency strobes casting everything in pulses of danger and desire. The drone’s corpse smolders in the corner, acrid smoke curling into the ceiling vent, half-forgotten.
But all I feel ishim.
Naull’s breath is warm against my cheek. His chest rises and falls against mine in a rhythm that doesn’t feel borrowed anymore—it feels shared. Like we’ve synced to some private beat the rest of the universe doesn’t get to hear.
My back’s against the thermal panel, skin fever-warm from its heat. His arms are around me, one hand still tangled in my hair, the other pressed flat over my ribs like he’s anchoring me to the moment. Like he’s afraid I’ll drift away without gravity holding us down.
I won’t.
Icouldn’t.
Because right now—righthere—everything else is gone.
The war. The base. The future.
Even the oxygen warning blaring softly overhead.
It all fades.
