“And now?”
I breathe deep.
Let it fill my lungs.
“Now I think maybe vulnerability isn’t the enemy.”
He watches me for a long time.
And then—he starts removing his gear.
It’s not slow.
Not hesitant.
Just methodical.
Plate by plate. Layer by layer. Until he’s standing there in nothing but the dark undershirt and the tension in his spine.
I don’t move.
But my heart does something sharp and soft all at once.
He crosses to me—quiet, like a shadow—but he doesn’t touch me. Not yet. Just stands close enough that I feel the heat coming off his skin.
“If you want space,” he says, voice low, “say the word.”
I turn toward him.
He’s so close now I can see the faint rise and fall of his chest. The bruising along his collarbone. The ghost of fear behind his control.
I step closer.
“I don’t want space,” I whisper. “I wantyou.”
And then I kiss him.
It’s not like the first time.
That kiss was hunger, urgency, desperation coiled into breathless heat. This one is slower. Deeper. Like diving into something we know might drown us and choosing it anyway.
His hands find my waist.
Mine press flat to his chest.
We don’t rush.
The garden hums around us, soft and pulsing.
And for the first time in cycles, I feel safe.
Not because the station isn’t hunting us.
Not because the future is clear.
But becausethis—this moment, this choice—is real.
He kisses like he’s memorizing me.
