SABLE
The scissors glide through his hair like they’ve known each other forever.
I’m not even holding them anymore. Not really. I’m just watching my hands work—snip, comb, smooth—like this moment was carved into the bones of the universe a thousand years ago. Voltar sits in my salon chair, impossibly large, barely fitting, shirtless and somehow calm. His broad shoulders ripple beneath gold-scarred skin, the kind of canvas you don’t rush. I move slowly, reverently.
His eyes are on me the whole time. Not in the mirror. Not watching the cut. Just… me.
I comb again, fingers brushing the ridges at his temples, and he doesn’t flinch. He leans into the touch like it’s the first real contact he’s ever had that didn’t involve blood or blasters. There’s a stillness between us, deep and sacred. My breath catches as I tilt his chin up, studying the fall of light across his jawline.
“I could make you beautiful,” I whisper.
“You already did.”
I wake with a start.
My sheets are a tangled, sweaty mess, my heart jackhammering against my ribs. The room’s too hot. The air too thick. Everything feels… wrong. Or right. Or too close to both.
“Oh no,” I groan, flopping back against the pillow.
The ceiling does not answer.
That dream was way too vivid. I can still feel the weight of the scissors in my hand, still see the softness in Voltar’s eyes—the kind of softness I didn’t think he had. The kind of softness I’m not sure I can take.
I shove the covers off and stumble to the refresher. My reflection looks like I lost a slap fight with a synth lion—hair everywhere, pillow crease down one cheek, eyes wide with something between desire and mild panic.
“What are you doing to me?” I ask no one, splashing cold water on my face.
I don’t get an answer. But my body’s still humming from the kiss. And now that dream.
Stars help me.
I dress faster than usual—plain blouse, high-waisted trousers, emergency heels—and grab my compad on the way out. Voltar’s already waiting by the door, arms folded, gaze on the hallway like he expects it to attack.
“Morning,” I mutter.
He nods, silent for once. It’s rare, and a little unnerving. Usually he’s got something cocky to say about the weather, my outfit, or the number of weapons I’m probably hiding.
Today, though, it’s quiet.
We walk side by side through the early morning haze, our footsteps echoing in sync across the hover-tiled streets. Shops are still shuttered. The air smells like burnt synth-oil and rising pastry steam. Voltar doesn’t say a word, but he stays close, his shoulder a silent shield beside me.
And for some reason, I don’t want him to talk. Not yet. The silence is warm. Companionable. Like the night hasn’t quite let us go.
Then we pass a storefront with mirrored windows.
I glance sideways and catch our reflection.
I have to stop.
He does too, turning just enough to follow my gaze.
There we are—me, five-foot-two, all red hair and razor-edged nerves, heels clacking against the stone like I’ve got something to prove. And him…
Voltar is a walking fortress. Eight feet of bulk and brutal beauty, muscles stacked like they’re on union contracts, scars like medals of war. Beside him, I look like I wandered into the wrong comic strip.
But the strangest thing is—it works.
Somehow.
