A pause. Then footsteps retreat. Smart man.
Minutes stretch. Hours bend.
Then she moves.
Just a twitch at first. A flicker of lashes. Her head shifts against the pod’s cushion. My whole body tenses, breath caught in my throat like a punch that never lands.
Her lips part again, and her voice—raspy, barely there—cracks the silence.
“Still here?”
I lean forward so fast the chair groans. My hand finds hers, dwarfs it.
“Always.”
Her eyelids flutter, half-mast, hazy with painkillers and exhaustion. I brush a lock of tangled red hair from her forehead, gentle as I can. My fingertips tremble. I hate it.
She looks at me. Really looks. That blue fire, dulled but not out.
“I should’ve stopped him,” I murmur, ashamed. “I knew he was fast. Knew he’d bolt. I should’ve?—”
Her fingers, bruised and stiff, wrap around my wrist. She’s weak. But her grip is solid. Willful.
“We both knew the risks,” she whispers. “Don’t you dare blame yourself.”
I shake my head. “You almost died.”
She blinks slow, exhaling through her nose. “Then next time… we make sure nobody else does.”
Her grip tightens. Surprising. Fierce.
“Don’t wall up on me now, Voltar. I need you with me. Not protecting me. With me.”
I nod. Can’t speak. There’s something in my throat, thick and hot.
She lays back, eyes fluttering again, but not all the way shut.
“You’re not alone anymore,” she murmurs. “So stop acting like it.”
I sit there long after she drifts off again.
Watching her chest rise and fall.
And I make a vow. One deeper than duty. Older than war.
No matter what hell comes next, she won’t face it alone.
Not while I breathe.
The hiss of the medbay door drags me from my thoughts. Again.
This time it’s Lazarus.
He’s not wearing his usual smirk. No clipboard, no tablet. Just a hard glint in his eye and a sliver of something that smells like respect.
“Otto’s getting nervous,” he says without preamble.
I glance at Sable. Still sleeping. Breathing steady. Pale, but stable. My chest loosens a fraction.
