I stop at a vendor on the way.
The flowers catch my eye immediately.
They’re illegal in at least six systems.
Bright crimson petals edged in gold, stems blackened like charred bone. They pulse faintly, heat shimmering around them, and every few seconds theyignite—a brief, spectacular bloom of flame—before collapsing back into themselves and reforming like nothing happened.
The vendor sees me staring and grins. “Incendiary blossoms,” he says. “Self-regenerating. Totally safe.”
One of them flares hotter than the others, singing the air.
I raise a brow ridge. “You and I have different definitions of safe.”
“Romantic, though,” he offers.
I think of Sable. Of her laugh. Of the way she looks at me like she’s bracing for impact and daring it to hurt her.
“Yeah,” I say. “Romantic.”
I buy the bouquet.
It burns my glove just enough to be interesting.
Her building comes into view faster than my heart can keep up with. Same cracked facade. Same balcony. I half expect to see her standing there again, arms crossed, watching the sky like it owes her something.
She’s not.
The hallway smells like cleaning solvent and someone’s overcooked dinner. My boots thud against the floor as I move, ignoring the stares. Someone whispers my name. Someone else scrambles out of my way.
I stop in front of her door.
For the first time since the redeployment order dropped, I hesitate.
Just for a second.
Then I knock.
There’s a pause.
Footsteps.
The door slides open.
Sable freezes.
She stares at me like I’ve hallucinated myself into existence—eyes wide, breath catching, mouth opening without sound.
I hold up the bouquet, flowers flaring softly in my grip.
“These seemed… romantic?” I offer.
For half a heartbeat, she doesn’t move.
Then she launches herself at me.
Hard.
Her arms slam around my torso, fingers digging into my armor like she’s afraid I’ll evaporate if she lets go. The impact knocks the breath out of me and I stumble back a step, barely catching myself against the doorframe.
