His eyes are dark in the low light. “I didn’t think I’d survive that mission. Hell, Ishouldn’thave. They sent me to die.”
“I know,” I say again. “I know what that kind of mission looks like.”
He swallows.
“The pit fights... that wasn’t living. That was surviving. That was me clawing at the galaxy, hoping maybe—maybe—my name would land on the right ears. Thatyou’dhear it. Thatshemight someday hear it.”
Tears hit my cheeks before I realize I’m crying.
I wipe them away, harsh and useless.
“I never wanted to raise her without you,” I whisper. “But I didn’t think I had a choice.”
His voice softens. “You do now.”
Those three words crack something open in me.
Like a lock undone from the inside.
I move across the couch, slow. Not thinking. Just needing to be near.
And he doesn’t grab me.
Doesn’t pull.
He just opens his arms.
And I fold into him like I’ve belonged there the whole time.
No explosions.
No shouting.
No dramatic music.
Just the rhythm of our breath, slow and jagged.
Just his chest, warm against my cheek.
Just his hands, shaking a little as they settle against my back.
I cry harder than I have in years. Not loud. Not wild.
Just steady.
Like grief finally loosed.
Like hope hurting its way out of me.
Valtron doesn’t shush me.
Doesn’t flinch.
He just holds on, like the pieces of me won’t fall if he’s strong enough to keep them close.
After a long while, I tilt my face up.
He kisses me.
