“You knew this,” I say, voice shaking, “and you didn’t tell me.”
“I couldn’t.”
“Bullshit.”
“Icouldn’t.” His voice cracks. “You were finally starting to feel safe again. You were talking about a future. About us. Abouttrying. And I wanted that. I still want that. But if I told you what this was—what it meant—you’d look at me like I was already gone.”
“And you thought lying would fix that?”
“I thought maybe I could buy us time.”
“Time to what? Pretend this was normal? That you weren’t going to vanish into another goddamn suicide mission and leave me wondering if I’d ever see you again?”
He looks away.
Which tells me everything.
I press my palm to my chest, like I can hold my heart in place before it breaks through my ribs.
“You bastard,” I whisper.
“I know.”
“I would’ve helped you. Icould’vehelped you.”
“I didn’t want help.”
“Then what the hell do you want?”
His eyes snap to mine.
“You.”
The word is so simple, so stupidly human, it punches the air out of me.
“I wantedyou, Rhea. Not the mission. Not the orders. Not the war. Just—this. This broken, seedy freighter and your voice bitching at me to eat something besides rations. Your hands on that rig like you’re gonna will the damn code into telling the truth. You, safe. Here. With me.”
My knees almost give.
And then, like an idiot, I step forward and slap him.
Hard.
His head barely moves. But his eyes widen like I stabbed him.
“You don’t get to make that decision alone,” I hiss. “Not anymore.”
He doesn’t answer.
I grab the comm pad from his hand. Read the message again. The words swim. They hurt. They feel like a countdown.
“How long until they come looking?”
He shrugs. “They won’t. This isn’t that kind of mission. You say no, they write you off.”
“And if you say yes?”
He exhales. “I don’t come back.”
