I’m not angry, which might be what is unsettling me the most. Instead I feel … exposed.
As if a version of myself I’d sealed away has been dragged into the light without my consent. Not the woman who loved him. Not the one who begged for time. But the one who learned, finally, that being chosen comes with conditions.
I tell myself it doesn’t matter.
That whatever history I share with a man who survived somewhere else on this planet has no bearing on the choices I’m making now. That I’m not that woman anymore. That I’ve grown past needing things I couldn’t have. The lie sits badly in my chest.
I shift, easing pressure off my ankle, and wince despite myself. The movement draws a faint echo from the corridor beyond the room. Footsteps, careful and measured.
I don’t look up right away. I know who it is before he comes into view. I’ve learned the cadence of his presence the way you learnweather. Not by sight, but by the way the air responds. Korr stops just inside the threshold.
He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t ask if I’m all right. He surveys the space instead, attention moving in a slow circuit. Door. Walls. Ceiling. The narrow passage that leads to the children. Only after he’s satisfied does he turn his focus fully on me.
I feel it like a weight settling, not heavy but absolute.
He moves closer and lowers himself to sit across from me, far enough that our knees don’t touch, close enough that the firelight brushes his skin the same way it brushes mine. He rests his forearms on his thighs, posture relaxed without being careless.
For a moment, neither of us says anything. The silence stretches, thick but not uncomfortable. It’s the kind that invites truth if you let it. I stare at the floor between us, tracing cracks that look like fault lines on a map.
“They’re sleeping,” I say finally, because it’s easier than saying anything else.
“I know,” he replies.
No follow-up. No probing. I draw in a slow breath and let it out through my nose, steadying myself.
“I didn’t expect to see… anyone,” I say. The words feel clumsy, insufficient. “From before.”
Korr’s gaze doesn’t leave my face. There’s no flicker of jealousy there. No tension. Just attention, focused and unwavering.
“You don’t have to explain,” he says.
I huff a quiet, humorless breath. “That’s the problem. I think I do.”
He doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t lean in. He gives me space, the way someone does when they know forcing closeness would shatter something fragile instead of protecting it. I pick at the edge of my sleeve, nerves buzzing under my skin.
“I thought I was done with that part of my life,” I continue. “Done letting it touch me. But seeing him…” My voice trails off. I shake my head once, sharp and frustrated. “It’s like reaching back and dragging something out of the rubble I’d already buried.”
Korr’s jaw tightens, just slightly. I don’t think it’s the words, but the weight behind them.
“I don’t want to carry it into… this,” I say, finally lifting my eyes to his. “Whatever… this is. Whatever we’re doing. I won’t survive it if I let the past decide the outcome.”
His expression doesn’t change, but something deep in his gaze steadies, like a decision settling into place.
“It won’t,” he says quietly.
The certainty in his voice makes my chest ache. I look away first, because believing him feels more dangerous than doubting ever did.
I expect him to leave it there.
That’s always been my experience. People give you space when things get complicated. They tell you they understand and then step back, letting distance do the work they don’t want to do themselves.
Korr doesn’t.
He shifts closer, slow enough that I can stop him if I want to, but I don’t. When he settles beside me, our shoulders don’t touch, but the space between us feels charged.
“You think the past still has a claim on you,” he says.
It isn’t an accusation. It’s an observation, spoken with the same calm he uses when reading terrain.
