And maybe it does.
Maybe all of this does.
He walks beside me down the hallway—quiet, steady, holding the air like he doesn’t want to press too hard on the moment.
I stop outside the small guest room.
Turn to him.
He doesn’t ask. He doesn’t assume.
He waits.
So I open the door.
And walk in.
He follows.
I don’t lock it.
I don’t need to.
The room is simple.Cot in the corner. Worn blankets. Old posters still stuck to the walls—star maps, a cartoon of a hover-truck shaped like a lizard, drawings from past kids taped in crooked lines.
But to me, right now, it feels like the center of the universe.
I close the curtains and sit on the edge of the bed.
My hands rest in my lap for a beat.
He kneels in front of me.
And just waits.
Gods.
This man.
This is the same man who once ruled ten systems from a command table carved out of asteroid steel.
Now here he is—kneeling before me like a prayer he hasn’t dared to speak yet.
I lift my hand and touch his jaw. The edge of stubble there is softer than I expect. His eyes close under my fingers.
“You’ve changed,” I say softly.
His lips twitch. “Not enough.”
“No,” I whisper. “Just enough.”
When I kiss him,it’s slow.
Not the desperate kind of before, not the world-ending kind.
This is the kind that builds. That holds. That listens.
He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t lead.
