Outside the window, a distant thunder rolls. I close my eyes and feel the storm in me. Not the one outside. The one inside. And I let it settle. Because here, in the space between her breath and the whisper of rain, I found home.
CHAPTER 22
ARIA
The simpod door closes with a hush, leaving only silence and the echo of almost. Almost connected. Almost merged. Almost enough.
The Meld had flickered today—like a match that wouldn’t quite catch. We brushed against each other’s thoughts, but they slid past instead of sinking in. I felt it—the hesitation. The static. The wall we hadn’t named yet.
I told the techs it was neural drift. Fatigue. A tech hiccup. They logged it. Nodded. Moved on.
But I know better.
Garma breathes slow and even against my chest, his lashes long, cheeks flushed from dreaming. I run my fingers through his curls, something inside me twisting at how warm and heavy he feels draped across me—so real. So alive. He’s the only thing in this universe that makes sense.
I wait until Garma is down for the night. Until the quiet in the apartment feels unbearable. Until the ache in my chest pushes past pride.
Then I rise. I don’t even grab a sweater.
The hall is short. His door is closed, light a sliver under the frame. My fist hovers to knock, but I don’t.
I just open it.
Naull’s on the bed. Shirtless. Sitting in that hunched, thinking posture he gets when the world presses too hard. His hands are clasped. Knuckles white.
He looks up. Eyes wide.
“Aria—”
I don’t let him finish. I cross the room and grab the front of his shirt like it’s the only thing anchoring me to gravity. I kiss him hard—no hesitation. No question. No words.
He catches me like he always does, palms cradling my jaw, lips parting in surprise and then surrender.
It’s heat, yes. Hunger. But more than that—it’sus.All the things we’ve been holding back, cracked open in one shared breath.
My hands find the back of his neck, the scar that curves down his shoulder. He trembles under my touch.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he whispers, forehead pressed to mine.
“Then tell me to go.”
He doesn’t.
We fall backward into the bed like a wave breaking. Our movements aren’t gentle. They’re desperate. Honest. My fingers find the waistband of his pants, and his breath stutters. He meets my eyes, searching, like this might still be a dream he’s afraid to wake from.
“You’re sure?”
“I need this,” I say. “I needyou.”
His hands slide along my waist, up my spine, memorizing. Worshipping. The kiss deepens—slower now. Intentional. He pulls me into his lap, and I melt into the curve of his chest, the rhythm of his breathing syncing with mine.
When we come together, it’s not frantic. It’s not performative.
It’strue.
He holds me like I’m breakable and burning at the same time. His name escapes me in pieces, torn between gasps and whispers. He buries his face in my neck and says mine like it’s a vow.
We move as one. Like muscle memory. Like poetry.
