CHAPTER 17
MARA
Iwake up warm. Anchored. Not to a place—but a presence.
Tatek’s chest rises and falls beneath my cheek, steady and deep, and for a long time I just lie there, listening to it. Counting it. Letting it tether me like a pulse under water. His hand rests on my back, fingers splayed wide, protective even in sleep. Not possessive. Just present.
I should feel fragile.
After everything. After being touched like that. After giving myself over in a way I haven’t in years—maybe ever.
But I don’t.
I feel clear.
Like something inside me that’s been buried under protocols and false ident-codes and redacted memories finally snapped free and said:Enough.
I ease up on one elbow, careful not to wake him. The light in the simulation chamber hasn’t changed—stars still flicker in the false sky, soft and quiet and untouchable. The room still breathes that low artificial hum, but it feels different now.
Or maybe I do.
I slide off the makeshift bedding and stretch, every muscle loose and sore in the best way. My body hums—not fromexertion, but from remembering. Every kiss. Every touch. Every time he looked at me like I was real.
Because I am.
No matter what the Coalition flagged. No matter how many audit files they scrubbed. No matter how many ident markers they tried to overwrite.
I’m still here.
Because of me. And—stars help me—because of him.
I cross the chamber barefoot, picking my way through broken moss projections and static leaves, and reach for my shirt. It smells like skin and sweat and him. I pull it on anyway, like armor.
My datapad blinks once from across the room—faint, controlled. Someone’s pinged the internal relay network, but the encryption’s tight. Subdermal tag-level. Not surveillance.
Tatek.
Of course.
I don’t open the message. It’s not for me.
But knowing he sent one... that matters.
Because whatever he told them, it wasn’t about retreat.
It wasdeclaration.
I turn back toward him.
He hasn’t moved. But his eyes are open now, watching me.
And stars, the way he looks at me—like I’m some ancient story written into bone. Like heseesme.
“Didn’t mean to wake you,” I say quietly.
“You didn’t.” His voice is gravel and morning and something sweeter. “You okay?”
I nod. Then walk back to him, kneel beside the makeshift bed, and take his hand in mine.
