I memorize it.
The rhythm of her breathing.
The weight of her hip beneath my palm.
The way her knuckles rest by her mouth, curled loose like she’s finally safe enough to dream.
And then, just when I think she’s asleep—deep enough not to stir even if I moved—she whispers my name.
“Naull…”
Soft.
Barely a sound.
Like it slipped from her lips without permission. Like itmeantsomething more than a name ever should.
And it tears through me.
I don’t move. Don’t respond. Just lie there in the quiet, letting her voice echo through every broken part of me I thought I’d long buried.
She doesn’t say anything else.
Just drifts back down into whatever sleep carries someone like her—someone too fierce to fall unless shechoosesto.
I don’t sleep.
Can’t.
My body’s still. My breathing matched to hers. But inside?
I’mwrecked.
I’ve fought in a hundred battles. Piloted through storms that made lesser men piss themselves in terror. I’ve been dropped into firestorms and pulled out comrades with nothing but a half-charged rifle and a prayer to gods I don’t even believe in.
Butthis?
This is the scariest thing I’ve ever felt.
Because it’shope.
And hope? Hope is dangerous.
Hope makes you reach for things you’re not sure you deserve. Makes you think maybe, justmaybe, you’re not just a war dog or a weapon. Maybe you’re aman.
And maybe that man gets to have something like this.
Someone likeher.
But I know better.
Don’t I?
Because morning always comes.
It creeps in soft through the vents, light slanting across the floor in pale gold slices. The alarm doesn’t go off. The station hums in that low, early hour murmur, like it’s holding its breath before the day starts screaming again.
And she’s gone.
