I won’t.
Not tonight.
Maybe not ever again.
Rhea sits across from us, elbows on her knees, chin in her hands. Watching. The lines around her eyes are softer now, the brittle weight in her shoulders eased just a little. She looks tired—but not alone.
Not anymore.
“I’ll take her,” she whispers.
I shake my head. “She’s fine.”
She watches me a beat longer. Then she nods, pushes off the couch, disappears down the hall to prep the kid’s room.
I stand slow, easing Ripley into my arms like she’s a live wire wrapped in silk. She doesn’t stir—not even when I tuck her under the starlit coverlet or pull the bramblebear from her fingers and place it beside her.
Her mouth twitches. Dreaming.
Rhea leans in the doorway, arms crossed.
“She’s… strong,” I say.
“She had to be,” Rhea replies. Her voice cracks just slightly. “We both did.”
Our eyes lock.
There’s this pause—this impossible stillness where time thins out and the only thing between us is history and everything we didn’t say.
I step toward her.
Slow.
Measured.
“I can be the man you need,” I say. “Not just the fighter. Not just the weapon.”
Her chin lifts. Brave. Raw. She doesn’t deflect this time.
She just whispers, “Show me.”
Later,we lie tangled in dim starlight.
No arena crowds.
No medals or ranks or bloodied fame.
Just skin and breath and softness.
We didn’t rush. No claws, no heat borne from panic or war. This was different. Slower. A reclamation.
Every kiss is deliberate.
Every sigh, sacred.
Her fingers tremble the first time they trail across the old scar above my heart. I take her hand, hold it flat to my chest, let her feel the rhythm there—uneven, steady, stubborn.
Her tears come quiet.
