The first roots of something ancient.
Something fierce.
Something that whispers through my bones and settles there like an old scar finally healing.
Something I’m no longer sure I want to resist.
CHAPTER 21
JILLIAN
Inever notice the quiet until it matters.
Out in the open desert, the wind talks all the time—screaming, chewing, whispering across broken stone. But inside the dome, when the storm dies down and morning slips in like a slow exhale, the silence between him and me feels louder than any storm.
I’m hyper-aware of him now.
Not in the terrifying way I would have described it days ago—back when stingers and claws and pure instinct defined everything about this world. Not in the way I once feared he would turn and tear me apart for stepping inside his domain.
No. Now I’m aware of him in every single gentle beat of my own breath.
There’s a warmth in the air that shouldn’t be there, except it is. A rolling, constant warmth that clings to my skin like a blanket more effective than the thermal generator we dragged in two days ago. And the only heat source is him—the massive coil of muscle he carries so effortlessly, the low hum of something like life deep beneath his skin, like embers that refuse to die.
I watch him sometimes without thinking about it—just observe like he’s part of the environment now. Like sunlight, or creaking stone when the earth shifts. Not hidden. Not secret.
He moves slower than a human, measured, intentional—but each movement carries power. Like water over boulders, quiet but unstoppable. When he shifts his weight, I feel it—a gentle rumble in the floor beneath me, like the world itself breathing. I’ve caught myself tracing the path of his shoulder blades as he stands, or the quiet way he leans his palm on the stone wall when he thinks I’m focused on data and not on him.
He keeps his distance. Respectful distance. Enough that my space doesn’t feel invaded, but close enough that I feel him there—like a constant tether just outside my personal field.
And he watches me.
Not in the hungry, territorial way the marines watch unknown things. Not in the twitchy, switch-trigger way Ciampa looks at every new threat. No. His gaze lingers—slow, quiet, heavy with questions without words. Like he’s trying to understand something about me that I haven’t fully understood myself.
I don’t look away from those moments anymore. Because I don’t want to.
This morning I wake from a dream—not the kind that flickers and fades, but one that feels real. Vivid. I was standing on a ridge, cold wind ripping through me until I couldn’t feel my fingers, and he was there. Standing tall, massive against the gray sky, eyes glowing gold like braziers. But he wasn’t snarling. He wasn’t a shadow. He was just… him. And when I reached out, he didn’t shrink back—he stepped forward and let my palm brush his jaw, slow and unguarded.
I wake with my heart racing, hands trembling. That’s when I know it isn’t fear I feel. It’s something more—something ancient and primal and terrifying in its clarity.
I pack water. Two nutrient bars. My compad—even though I haven’t opened it since I brought him here the first time. I don’t need it anymore. Not today.
I walk toward the dome like I’m stepping into breath itself—familiar, oddly comforting, something that’s become indispensable without my permission.
He’s already there—not crouched or hiding, but seated where the low light pools on the stone, like he belongs in the shadows and the shadows belong to him.
My footsteps echo—soft, uneven—and he lifts his head without turning his body. That simple motion sends something hot and bright twisting in my chest.
“Morning,” I say. My voice sounds strange even to me—softer than normal, quieter, like it’s meant for him and only him.
He eyes the water canister in my hand—then me—then the water again. No expression. Just observation.
I sit down opposite him, folding my legs beneath me. The dome is still half-lit by the morning sun, dust motes dancing in the pale yellow beams like slow-drifting stars.
“I brought water,” I repeat, though it feels like a ritual now. Like some half-formed incantation that matters more because he listens.
He doesn’t accept the canister—not yet. Just watches it, like he’s weighing whether it should belong to him.
I open my pack and pull out the nutrient bars, offering one to him like an offering. “Breakfast?” I ask, a bit sheepishly. “Not exactly gourmet, but?—”
