Ithought I’d feel guilt.
I’ve felt it for so long it’s a reflex—like breath. Like blood. I’ve worn it like armor, let it bleed into my bones until there wasn’t a part of me it hadn’t touched.
But not now.
Now, as I lie in the hush after firelight and flesh and storm, there is no room for guilt. Only awe.
Her body is curled against my chest, warm and soft and perfect in the strange way only something truly alive can be. One leg tangled around mine, her face nestled into the crook of my shoulder, lips parted just slightly as she breathes against my skin. Her fingers—those delicate, daring things—are laced in my hair like she was born to be there.
I don’t dare move.
Not yet.
If this is a dream, I refuse to wake.
But it isn’t.
The heat between us is real. The pulse of her heart where her chest brushes mine is real. The way she whispered my name like it meant safety instead of fear, like it was something holy… that’s real too.
She chose me.
Not because she had to. Not out of some desperate need for protection, or fear of the things that crawl and hunt on this cursed planet. She didn’t choose me for survival.
She chose me because shewantedme.
And that… that breaks something inside me.
No. Not breaks.
Rebuilds.
She kissed every scar like it was a promise. Touched every jagged edge and didn’t flinch. Met every growl, every hesitation, with patience. Her hands roamed my body like they weren’t afraid of what they’d find, only eager to learn.
I’ve been called a monster, a butcher, a failure. I’ve called myself worse. But last night… she called meMaug.
And when she cried my name into the hollow of my throat, her whole body arched against me and her voice cracked in the quiet—I felt something uncoil in my chest that I didn’t know I still had.
Hope.
The fire’s almost out now. Only a few smoldering coals remain, casting lazy amber light across the inside of the rocky alcove. The blankets beneath us are damp with sweat and rain and the lingering heat of what we shared.
I should be thinking of what comes next. The mission. The dangers. The fungus. Ciampa.
But all I can do is watch the way her hair clings to her temple, how her eyelashes flutter against my shoulder in sleep, and feel something sacred take root in the ruins of who I used to be.
A rumble stirs in my chest, low and involuntary. Not warning. Not threat.
Contentment.
It’s foreign. But not unwelcome.
Her nose wrinkles, like she hears it in her dreams, and then she shifts, just slightly. Her hand tightens in my hair. Her leg slides higher over my hip, and her breath catches softly in the space between us.
I go still. Wait.
She murmurs something unintelligible and then relaxes again. Her mouth brushes the side of my neck.
I close my eyes.
