I stay inside her as long as I can, our hearts hammering together, our breath one storm.
And when I finally pull her close again, curling her against my chest, I realize?—
I’m not alone anymore.
CHAPTER 25
JILLIAN
We walk back to camp just after dawn.
I don’t speak much. Neither does Maug. But we don’t need to. The silence between us isn’t awkward—it’s heavy, thick with everything we shared. His hand brushes mine every now and then, fingers twitching like he wants to hold on and isn’t sure if he’s allowed to. I don’t take his hand, but I don’t move away either.
We’re separate now, but close.
That’s how it has to be. Back in camp, we can’t be… us. Not like last night. Not like this morning when I whispered his name against his shoulder while the firelight painted gold across his skin. Not when everything here feels wrong.
And itdoesfeel wrong. Immediately.
The second the dome comes into view, my skin tightens. The air smells different—staler, chemical. The sunlight doesn’t quite make it past the haze. There’s a film over everything. Or maybe it’s just in my head. But I can’t shake the feeling that we’ve returned to somethingrotting.
Ciampa is pacing near the storage bay when we arrive. He doesn’t see us at first—his eyes are locked on something insideone of the sample crates. I catch the glint of moisture in the corners, thick and gelatinous, lining the metal like mucous.
He turns when the gravel crunches under Maug’s foot.
His face splits into a grin, too wide, too toothy. “Well, well. Look who finally returns from their little love hike.”
I stiffen.
He shouldn’t know.
Heshouldn’tknow.
I feel Maug tense beside me, but I throw out a hand, stopping him before he can speak. “We were collecting soil samples. You know, the job we’re here to do.”
Ciampa tilts his head. His pupils look… off. Too wide. Too dark. “Of course. Just doing the work. Very diligent, Jill.”
He turns away, but I don’t miss the twitch in his jaw. The way his fingers flex at his sides like they’re learning how to move again.
Maug leans close, voice a rumble only I can hear. “He’s wrong. Something’s wrong.”
“I know,” I murmur.
We split up then—on purpose. He heads toward the perimeter fencing to check the sensors. I go to the med dome, pretending I need a report logged. The lie tastes bitter, but I swallow it down.
Inside, the air’s thicker. More humid.
The samples are everywhere.
There’s no containment protocol anymore. No tags. No protective casing. Fungal clusters sit in open dishes on desks, in unsealed canisters shoved beneath bunks, some of themglowingfaintly now, a phosphorescent pulse like a heartbeat.
I check the water station.
The edges of the tank are lined with something sticky. A faint shimmer of film. I dip a finger in and rub it between my thumb and forefinger.
Slippery.
Faintly acidic.
