“I’ve watched you bleed for people who don’t know your name. I’ve seen you throw yourself between me and death without even blinking. But maybe… maybe this time, you don’t have to.”
I reach for the pad. Tap the screen.
The words shine, sharp and cold.
Whistleblowers. Executions. “Acceptable” civilian losses.
His golden eyes scan the text. Slow. Careful.
When he speaks, his voice is sandpaper.
“How long have you had this?”
“It decrypted ten minutes ago.”
He keeps reading. His knuckles go white where they rest on his thighs.
“This proves everything,” he murmurs.
“Yeah.”
“Dowron won’t ignore this.”
“No. He won’t.”
He sets the pad down with reverence, like it might break. Like the truth might be too fragile after all this time.
I shift closer.
My knee brushes his.
“I need you to stay,” I say, and I hate how my voice catches. “Just a little longer. Just until we get to Dowron. Until we make this right. Until someone finally listens.”
He doesn’t speak.
But he’s looking at me now—really looking.
I rest my hand on his chest. Right over the scar where that blaster bolt hit him weeks ago. The skin beneath my palm is hot. His heart pounds steady and strong.
“Don’t leave me yet.”
His hand covers mine.
Slow.
Gentle.
He leans forward.
And when he kisses me, it’s different.
No firestorm. No edge-of-death adrenaline.
This kiss is slow.
Reverent.
Like he’s memorizing the shape of my mouth in case it’s the last time. Like he’s trying to say everything he’s too damn proud to put into words.
