But her fingers twitch, like some part of her knows.
I place her hand back against her chest, draping the fabric of the blanket over her bare shoulders.
Then I rise.
The floor creaks beneath my feet, quiet as confession. I stretch, joints cracking, muscles still pleasantly sore from everything we didn’t say out loud. There’s a lightness in me now I don’t quite recognize—like something has shifted in my center of gravity.
I don’t just love her.
I belong to her.
And that changes everything.
The shuttle baysmells like heat and lift exhaust and too many goodbyes.
I stand just inside the hangar threshold, arms crossed, watching the loading crews ferry refugees into lines. There’s a strange order to it—quiet, almost reverent. No shouting. No panic. Just movement. Parents guiding children with soft words. Old soldiers helping civilians who can barely walk. Small pockets of laughter, of singing, even. Like someone decided survival wasn’t enough. Not today. Today they want to live.
The overhead lights flicker once as the main transport powers up its secondary thrusters. Wind kicks through the hangar as the atmospheric shield cycles. I squint into it, blinking against grit.
Mara stands beside me, her stance open but alert—like part of her is still expecting a trap that hasn’t been sprung yet. She’s in a patched flight jacket, collar up, sleeves shoved to her elbows. Her hands are tucked into her back pockets, but she’s not relaxed. Not really.
I know the tension in her spine. It’s the one that says:I’m waiting for the catch.
“There isn’t one,” I say, softly.
She doesn’t look at me. Just keeps watching the boarding line. “There’s always a catch.”
I shrug. “Not this time.”
She turns her head, eyes narrowing. “You sure?”
“About as sure as I’ve ever been.”
She lets out a soft huff of breath and turns back toward the shuttles. Her expression is unreadable. Carefully neutral. But I can tell it’s hitting her.
All of it.
The evacuation. The pardon. The fact that we’re still standing after everything.
Civil Affairs disbanded last night—quietly, without fanfare. A message came through the diplomatic uplink: formal dissolution, signed and sealed. The leadership structure’s gone. Command lines redacted. Every operative granted clemency under Article Twelve. Even the ghost units.
We won.
Or at least—we stopped losing.
I look over at her again.
“You could take it,” I say.
Her brow arches. “Take what?”
“The offer. You earned it. You scared the hell out of half the Alliance just by surviving. They’d follow you now. Hell, they’d put you at the head of the new security council if you blinked in their direction.”
Mara snorts. “Gods. Can you imagine me behind a desk?”
“Yes,” I say, honest. “But I wouldn’t like it.”
She actually laughs.
