Morale’s shot to hell. They all think we’re already dead. I can feel it in their silence. In the way no one meets my eyes when I pass. In the way Cowley didn’t bother to give us a rousing speech this time. Just handed us the slate like it was a countdown.
I’m not ready.
Gods, I’m not ready.
But I sit there anyway. Tools scattered around me. Neural bands humming on standby. A half-repaired interface node inmy lap I’m not really fixing, just turning over in my hands like it might tell me something useful.
My hands won’t stop shaking.
And then I feel him.
Not see—feel.
Naull doesn’t knock. Doesn’t speak. Just stands in the doorway like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to be here.
He is.
Healwaysis.
I don’t look up right away. Just breathe. Try to make sense of the ache in my chest, the knot behind my ribs that’s tightening with every passing minute.
“It might be the last time,” I say. Quiet. Like the words taste wrong even leaving my mouth.
I finally look at him.
He’s already watching me.
There’s something raw in his face. Something too open for a man trained to bury everything. It twists something deep in me.
He takes a breath like he’s about to say something heavy.
Instead, he just says, “Then let’s not waste it.”
That’s all it takes.
I cross the room in three strides and kiss him like the world’s already ending.
And maybe it is.
This kiss isn’t careful.
It’s not slow.
It’s not frantic, either.
It’sfinal.
Desperate.
Honest.
Like all the things we didn’t say the night before are crashing into this moment with claws and teeth. Like every second we’ve denied this is now begging to be burned down.
We don’t undress.
Wetear.
Off zips. Buckles. Straps. Gloves. Shirts. It’s all noise in the way, and we rip it free like it’s an enemy we can’t afford to show mercy to.
