“Because you run,” I say, rising too. “Every time we get close. Every time somethingrealcracks through that sarcasm suit you wear like armor.”
“You’re reading into nothing.”
“No, I’m reading into everything. The way you hover when I’m wounded. The way you patch Whiplash like it’s your damn heartbeat. The way you look at me when you think I’m not watching.”
She goes still.
“I hate you,” she says softly.
“No, youwantto hate me. But you don’t. And that’s what’s messing with you.”
She shakes her head, jaw clenched. “This is war, Naull. Not some slow-burn romance novel.”
“Maybe it’s both.”
“You’re impossible.”
“You’re stunning.”
She flinches. Barely. But I catch it.
I step forward, slow this time. Not fast. Not loud. I take one of her hands—mechanic-worn, calloused, steady despite her temper.
“I’m not saying I deserve you,” I murmur. “I know I’m a mess. I know I’m too much. Too loud. Too reckless. But I see you, Aria. Not just the tech or the brain or the bad attitude. I seeyou.”
She swallows hard.
“I don’t know what to do with that,” she whispers.
“Try not running.”
For a beat, she doesn’t breathe.
Then she sighs, a long, shuddering thing, and sits back down like her knees gave out. Her hand’s still in mine.
“You want to know something stupid?” she says, voice tired now.
“Always.”
“I keep thinking about what you said. About honor. About how those delay dampeners insult it.”
I grin. “You mocking me again?”
“No. I think I get it.”
I blink. “Youwhatnow?”
She shrugs, suddenly shy. “It’s not about the system. It’s about trusting your instincts. About letting something react as fast as youfeel.”
I stare.
“Whoareyou and what did you do with Aria Sanchez?”
She glares at me, but it’s softer now. “Don’t get used to it.”
“I never get used to anything,” I say, leaning in just enough to feel her breath. “Except maybe you.”
She doesn’t pull away.
