“It was,” I say. “Before the flood cycles shorted it out.”
She drops her pack onto the floor and stretches her arms over her head, tension cracking in her spine.
I should say something.
I don’t.
Not yet.
Instead, I seal the door.
Then turn and face her.
She catches the change in me instantly.
“Tatek?”
“Give me a moment.”
Her brow furrows. “Are we in danger?”
“No.”
“But something’s wrong.”
“Not wrong,” I say. “Just… necessary.”
I move to the center of the chamber.
Drop to one knee.
Not out of pain.
Not submission.
But declaration.
It’s an old Vakutan posture—older than the wars, older than our place in the Coalition. It’s not done often. Not casually. It’s used in moments of clarity, when all other allegiances are released.
When you choose something—or someone—above all else.
She watches me with wide eyes, still and silent. The air between us feels heavier now. Denser.
“What are you doing?” she whispers.
I meet her gaze.
“Letting go of everything that would have told me not to love you.”
The words don’t echo.
They land.
Heavy. Absolute.
She doesn’t move.
Not at first.
