I nod. It’s the only movement I trust myself with.
She stops at the door and looks back at me. “Please don’t tell yourself this was a mistake just because it scares you.” Then she’s gone.
The room is immediately colder. My hands are still shaking, but it’s less from adrenaline and more from the realizations settling in, whether I want them or not.
Keeping my distance hadn’t protected the team.
Instead, it nearly cost me something I didn’t know how to want until it was already in my hands.
The main power comes back on in the early morning, and the generator settles into standby.
I lie in bed longer than usual, observing absences. There’s no thunder echoing in my skull, no vigilance dragging me awake before dawn. Most surprising: there’s no immediate flood of regret.
I roll onto my side and stare at the wall until the urge to run dulls into something manageable.
Then I get up, get dressed, square the bed with unnecessary precision, and leave the room as if nothing is different.
But everything is different.
Down in ops, Atlas is at the command desk, mug in hand as he scans the monitor. Grizz leans against the counter dismantling a piece of equipment I left there for himyesterday.
They both look up when I come in. Neither one says anything.
They know.
I take my usual seat and bring up the security feeds.
“Storm didn’t compromise the perimeter,” I say. “No power fluctuation past the initial transfer. Generator performance was within margin.”
Atlas nods his head. “Good.”
Grizz watches me longer than he should. “You good?” he asks. Not casual, but not probing.
I could deflect. I could shut it down with a grunt or a clipped acknowledgment.
Instead, I surprise all of us.
“Yeah,” I say. Then, after a pause, “I am.”
Grizz’s mouth twitches like he doesn’t quite trust the answer. But he accepts it, and the three of us get back to work.
I find Kira in the kitchen an hour later.
She’s standing at the counter in socked feet, hair loose down her back, slicing vegetables with careful attention.
She doesn’t turn when I enter, but she doesn’t freeze or brace.
“Morning,” she says, as if the word doesn’t carry history.
“Morning.”
The silence isn’t uncomfortable, but it’s not peaceful, either.
“I didn’t know if you’d want—” she starts, then stops herself, letting out a breath. “I wasn’t sure what today would look like.”
“I’m figuring that out.”
She accepts that answer without pushing.
