Vokar. Bare-armed. The cloak of night draped over his shoulders like a darker promise.
My breath catches — like I swallowed shards of ice.
He holds something in his hand. A small shape wrapped in rough cloth. Then the cloth unravels. My heart flips.
It’s Bunny.
One ear is sewn back on — with black thread. A crude but sturdy stitch. The fur where it joins is uneven; the edges still a little ragged. But the ear is there. Bent forward, sitting where it should.
He lays the rabbit on my bunk. The dim light catches the patched seam; the fur is clean in one place, grey fading into charcoal where the stitch crosses.
My fingers twitch. My tongue dry.
I don’t reach. I can’t.
He closes the door behind him. For a heartbeat we stand in silence — not breathing loud. Not daring to break this delicate quiet.
“Mine made better,” he says. His voice low, rough — but softer than I’ve heard in a long time. “You left it behind. I remembered.”
I draw a long breath. The scent hits me: the faded cotton of Bunny, the faint smoke and earth from Vokar’s skin, the metal tang of the ship’s air recycling system. It’s an ugly mix — but it smells like possibility.
“You didn’t have to,” I whisper.
He doesn’t shift. Just studies me. There’s a light in his red eyes that’s unfamiliar — not the roaring fire of war, but the slow burn of care.
“Maybe not,” he says. “But I wanted to.”
I close the distance — slow. My legs shake like I’m made of sand. I hover over the bed. Reach out.
My fingers brush the patched fur. Soft. Real. Right.
“Thank you,” I say, voice shaking with everything — relief, confusion, fear, hope.
He watches. Silent. Provided. Guarded.
“You said we start small,” I remind him.
He nods once. Slow. Heavy. The cloak’s shadow flickers on the wall.
“Small,” he agrees. Then — softer, almost gentle — “I want to do right by you. This time.”
I lean forward. Press the rabbit to my chest. Press my cheek against the cloth. Close my eyes.
He doesn’t move. He just stands there — a dark sentinel, no armor between us, no spurs dragging fate. Just… him.
The ache in my ribs — physical, emotional — loosens a fraction. Not a healing. Not yet. But a crack.
In this small, metal-cold room aboard a warship orbiting a savage moon — there’s warmth. Fragile, quiet. Maybe foolish.
But warmth.
I pull away finally. Not far. Just enough so I can meet his eyes.
“Don’t fuck this up,” I whisper.
His answer comes in absence of words. A slow turn of his head. The soft click of bone-plate settling.
And then — heavier than any roar, quieter than any demand — two simple words.
