And I do.
I rest mine against hers, eyes closed, pulse steady.
Her breath hitches.
“Is this—?” she starts.
I don’t let her finish.
“Don’t speak,” I murmur. “Not yet.”
She nods. Just once. Then stills.
I lift my hands to her face, fingers cradling her jaw. Not possessive. Not even protective. Just reverent. Anchored. Like I’m holding something that was once a myth and is now real.
Then I speak.
Not loud. Not soft.
Steady.
“Shared in silence.”
Her fingers find my hips.
“Chosen in truth.”
She leans in just a little closer.
“Remembered beyond name.”
The air shifts around us—like even the ship knows to stay quiet.
For a long moment, she doesn’t answer.
And then?—
“I was made to be forgotten,” she whispers. “But you remembered me. And I remember you.”
Something cracks open in my chest.
Not pain.
Not grief.
Something older. Deeper.
The kind of break that makes room for a new shape.
I open my eyes.
Hers are already on me.
“I love you,” I say.
“I know,” she replies. Then grins. “But it’s nice to hear anyway.”
I laugh—really laugh—and it breaks the last of the tension between us.
