“No,” he says. “That you hadn’t, before.”
He says it so simply, like it’s a basic fact that deserves immediate and violent correction. Like hefeelsit, this tiny injustice of mine, and wants to punch the stars into shape to fix it.
I laugh, short and quiet.
“Voltar,” I say, trying to force casual into my tone, “I… uh. Thanks. For staying. For… everything.”
He shifts like I just threw a plasma grenade at his feet. His shoulders stiffen. His mouth opens, closes, then flattens into something weirdly close to a grimace.
Is he?—?
Isheblushing?
No.
Can’t be.
His skin doesn’t even blush. It’s some weird mineral-hued tone that doesn’t follow human biology. But his ears—his ears might be ashade redderthan usual.
He clears his throat. “Wasn’t for gratitude.”
“Okay,” I say softly. “Still. I’m saying it.”
I get up and pad across the room, bare feet cold against the floor.
He watches every step like it’s a tactical threat.
I stop just in front of him, tilt my head back to meet those impossible gold eyes. They’re always bright, always sharp, but right now they’re searching. For what, I don’t know.
I reach for his arm.
Not fast.
Not slow.
Just… carefully.
My fingers wrap around the corded muscle of his forearm, warm and humming like a generator beneath the skin. His skin’s tougher than human flesh—slightly ridged, smooth in a way that feels engineered rather than grown. But it’s warm.
So warm.
I lean in.
Just a little.
Just enough that my shoulder brushes his chest.
And for the briefest of moments, I let myselffeel it.
The silence.
The safety.
The sheerpresenceof him.
His body, all mass and steel and contained fire.
My heart pounds in my ears.
