The kettle clicks on. I don’t remember turning it.
The steam curls in lazy spirals above the spout, and I watch it like it might spell out answers. Like maybe the heat knows what I don’t.
Naull appears in the doorway minutes later. Barefoot. Shirt half-tucked. Hair mussed like he’s been fighting sleep with his fists.
He leans against the frame. Doesn’t speak.
I look away.
“Didn’t mean to wake you,” I murmur.
“You didn’t.” His voice is low, rough. “I woke up cold.”
I say nothing.
He steps into the kitchen, silent, barefoot tread soft on the stone. He stops behind me. Doesn’t touch. But I feel him there. Heat and presence and unspoken things.
“You always run after.”
I stiffen. “I don’t run.”
He doesn’t argue.
Which somehow hurts more.
“I check on Garma,” I say, too quickly.
“I know.”
And then there’s silence again, thick and full.
“Aria.”
I brace for it.
But what he says next isn’t what I expect.
“I’m not asking for anything.”
I turn to look at him. He meets my eyes, steady, unwavering.
“I’m not trying to trap you. Or rush you. I just… I want to be near you. However you’ll let me.”
His words soften something inside me that’s been wound too tight for too long. I close my eyes.
“It’s not you I don’t trust,” I say quietly.
“I know.”
I take a breath. Let it out slow.
“It’s everything else.”
We sit in silence while the tea brews.
He pours it for me without asking, like he knows which mug I use. Which blend I keep in the back cabinet. It’s the smallest thing, but it feels enormous.
“I used to sit like this on Rhavadaz,” he says finally, nodding toward the window. “After missions. Just watch the sky try to kill us.”
