One word.
His voice is gravel and broken thunder. Deep, cracked with disuse, like it’s had to be dug up from somewhere far below his throat.
I blink. “Maug.”
I say it back without thinking, rolling the name over my tongue like a secret I’ve kept too long.
“Maug,” I repeat, softer this time.
He nods, the smallest dip of his head.
And something inside me breaks and reforms all at once.
We sit for a long time after that. No words. Just breathing the same air, the dome a cradle of ancient stone and shared silence.
Eventually, I keep talking.
Not because I have to. But because I want him to know.
“My mom wanted me to be a medic,” I say. “Said I had gentle hands. I think she just didn’t want me on the frontier. Too dangerous. Too unknown.”
He shifts again, not away from me—but closer. His massive form settling lower, more relaxed. Not comfortable. But less guarded.
“I guess I was always stubborn,” I add with a half-smile. “Even now, with everything going to hell... I don’t want to leave. Isn’t that stupid?”
He doesn’t answer. But something flickers in his expression. Something that feels like understanding.
I tell him about the night Carson gave me the compad. About the encrypted files and Ciampa’s buried crimes.
“He’s covering up everything,” I say. “Twisting the data. Faking reports. People are going to die.”
Still, no reply.
But I see it—the tightening of his jaw. The slow blink of his eyes, heavy with memory. I see the way he turns his face slightly, like the words have weight he wasn’t ready to carry.
I shift topics. Lighter things.
“My sister,” I say, “used to collect rocks. Not minerals—just... rocks. Said they were Earth’s forgotten teeth.”
That gets a low, soft sound from him—something like breath through a cracked smile.
I press on. “I used to tease her. Now I keep one in my boot. A dumb little pebble. Makes me feel closer to home.”
Still no full words. But his posture softens more.
When I finally trail off, it’s not because I run out of things to say—it’s because the quiet between us feels just as full. Just as needed.
And I realize something.
His silence isn’t absence.
It’s permission.
It’s trust.
And I’m not scared of it.
Not anymore.
