And when it was over—when our bodies stopped trembling and our hearts beat slower in sync—I curled into him and let sleep come.
I didn’t fight it.
Didn’t jerk awake at the first shift of weight. Didn’t startle from the half-memory of battle horns or sirens. Didn’t brace for impact.
I just let my body melt into his, breath warming the space between us, limbs tangled and slick and heavy with everything we’d just poured out.
I dreamed.
Not of war. Not of fire.
I dreamed of starlight on still water. Of laughter. Of him, standing at the edge of some distant ridge with his arms wide open, calling me home.
But when I wake, the dream vanishes in a blink.
The world is cold.
The light is gray.
His side of the floor—because we never made it to the cot—is empty.
I push up slowly, the silence around me sudden andsharp.A silence thatknows.
I wrap my arms around myself and breathe.
He’s gone.
Not gone-gone.
But up.
Moving.
I can feel it in the air. The scent of solder and neural gel still clings to the edge of the room. His tools are gone from the bench. The interface slate is powered down, but freshly used.
He’s prepping.
Whiplash.
For war.
I don’t stop him.
Can’t.
I just pull on my undersuit, the cold synthetic fabric clinging to skin still flushed with heat and memory.
I seal the chest plate with a hiss, lock my gauntlets into place, and press my forehead to the cool panel of the door before it opens.
My breath fogs against the surface.
And I pray.
Not to win.
Not even to live.
I just pray this won’t be the last time we touch.
