“I’m not sorry,” I say quietly.
His breath catches. “You shouldn’t be.”
And I’mnot.
Not even a little.
For once, I don’t feel like I’m drowning in protocol or trauma or second-guessing.
For once, I feelseen.
We stay like that, wrapped up in each other on the deck, long after the heat’s bled from the thermal wall. My skin’s still slick from sweat. His thumb traces lazy circles on my bare hip. Every nerve in my body hums.
The silence isn’t awkward.
It’sours.
And then the emergency override hisses.
A mechanical groan cuts through the quiet, followed by a sharp vent of air as the main dooropens.
Bright hallway light floods in. The oxygen scrubbers finally kick in with a low whir. The fire is officially out. The crisis? Resolved.
But we don’t move.
Can’t.
I look up at him, caught in the sudden spill of white light. His face is unreadable for a second. Tension at the edges. Unspoken thoughts in the corners of his eyes.
But I know him.
And I know that look.
He’s not regretting it.
He’sbracing for what comes next.
So am I.
But neither of us says a word.
I just press my forehead to his and breathe.
Let the moment be what it is.
Unruined. Unashamed.
Because maybe we’ll go back to the war.
Maybe we’ll go back to barking orders and pretending we’re just pilots and partners and nothing more.
Butnot yet.
Not here.
Not now.
For now, we just stay wrapped around each other, the room still glowing red at the edges, and I hold tight to the single truth ringing through my bones:
