There’s so much I want to say it all bottlenecks in my chest, clogs up my lungs. I’ve faced down orbital bombardments with less fear than this. At least those were honest. You see the fire coming.
This is quieter. Worse.
“I don’t think I told you this part,” I say finally. “About what changed.”
She tilts her head slightly. “I’m listening.”
I drag a hand over my face, feeling the roughness of dried ash along my jaw. “My whole life, people treated me like I was a weapon. A good one. A loud one. But still just… something you point and fire.”
She doesn’t interrupt.
“I leaned into it,” I continue. “Made it easier. If they want a monster, fine. I’ll be the best one they’ve got.”
My fingers curl into my palm. “I didn’t know there was anything else.”
She steps closer, knees brushing mine.
“You showed me,” I say. “Just by existing. By arguing with me. By trusting me. By looking at me like I wasn’t… disposable.”
Her breath catches. I hear it. See it.
“I didn’t know I could be more than war,” I finish.
Her eyes shine now, but still—still—no tears fall. She’s holding herself together with pure will, and it wrecks me.
“Voltar,” she says softly.
I stand before she can finish, the bed creaking behind me. I’m suddenly very aware of how big I am, how much space I take up in this small room that feels like a sanctuary I don’t deserve.
I reach for her, hesitate, then cup her face with my bare hand. My thumb brushes along her cheekbone, smearing a faint streak of ash I didn’t realize was still there.
“You changed me,” I say again, because it feels important to say it out loud. “No one’s ever done that before.”
She swallows hard.
“Don’t put that on me,” she says. “You did the changing.”
“Maybe,” I admit. “But you were the reason.”
For a second, her composure cracks.
She surges forward and kisses me.
It’s not gentle.
It’s not careful.
It’s desperate and bruising and full of everything we’re not saying. Her hands fist in the fabric at my sides, knuckles digging into muscle like she’s trying to anchor herself. I kiss her back just as hard, pouring everything I can’t take with me into the press of my mouth against hers.
I taste salt.
I don’t ask if it’s tears.
When we break apart, we’re both breathing hard. Foreheads touching. The world narrowed down to this small, fierce space.
“That,” she says hoarsely, “is because it might be goodbye.”
My chest tightens painfully.
