His jaw tightens.
I grab a coil of audio wire and slam it into the case. “You walked into that shuttle knowing you might never come back. Knowing you were leavingme.”
“I was saving you!”
“Bullshit,” I snap. “You were running.”
He flinches.
Good.
Because so help me, I amdonecarrying this pain alone.
“You think disappearing makes you noble?” I hiss. “You think bleeding for some off-the-books mission and becoming a media god makes you righteous? You vanished, Valtron. Imournedyou.”
“Isearched,” he growls. “Every lead. Every whisper. And they told me you were gone. That there was no Rhea Hart left to find.”
“You gave up.”
He steps forward.
I step back.
And there it is again—that damnpull. The gravity of him. The part of me that still curves toward his orbit no matter how far I run.
“I never gave up,” he says, quieter now. “You were a ghost. And I became something people could see, hoping maybeyouwould.”
I laugh—bitter, broken. “Well congrats. It worked.”
We’re breathing hard now. The air between us is thick with years of unsaid things. With heartbreak and what-ifs and aching truths that still haven’t found a voice.
He looks at me.
Not with anger.
Withdevastation.
“You could’ve told me,” he says. “You could’ve reached out.”
I don’t say it.
Don’t tell him about Ripley.
Because if I do, this fragile standoff explodes into something we can’t take back.
“I didn’t know where to start,” I whisper.
He steps back.
Nods.
Pain flickers across his face like lightning behind clouds.
Then he turns.
Walks away.
No dramatic exit. No slamming doors.
