He shifts his weight, then lowers himself to one knee near the fire. Not beside me. Across from me. The space between us is deliberate, but it’s smaller than before. Close enough that I see the faint scars along his jaw, pale against green skin. Close enough that the firelight outlines his strong jaw.
“The building will hold,” he says. “No further movement tonight.”
“I figured,” I say. “You wouldn’t have sat otherwise.”
His gaze flicks to mine. Something like acknowledgment passes between us.
Silence settles again, but this one is different. Not charged. Not brittle. Heavy in a way that suggests something is waiting.
“You were right earlier,” he says at last.
My breath catches. “About what?”
“About me compensating wrong.” He doesn’t look away as he says it. Doesn’t soften it. “I adjusted for speed and control. I didn’t leave room for you.”
The words aren’t an apology or an excuse, but an admission all the same.
“I didn’t say that,” I murmur.
“You didn’t need to.” He exhales, slow and controlled. “Tajss corrected me.”
That pulls a quiet, surprised sound from my throat. Not laughter. Something closer to disbelief.
“It does that,” I say. “Eventually.”
He nods once. “I’m learning.”
There’s something vulnerable in that admission, stripped of rank or certainty. It makes my chest tighten in a way I don’t like.
“You don’t have to carry everything alone,” I say before I can stop myself. The irony isn’t lost on me. “Even if you think you should.”
His gaze sharpens, not defensively. Thoughtfully.
“And you don’t get to disappear just because things are hard,” he replies. “Even if you think that’s safer.”
The fire pops softly. I look down at my hands, fingers curled into the fabric of my thin blanket.
“You don’t know what I’m protecting myself from.”
He leans back slightly, giving me space without retreating. “Then tell me.”
The invitation is simple. Too simple. My throat tightens.
“I can’t,” I say. Honest and small.
He accepts that without pressing. That, somehow, hurts more than if he’d argued.
“Then we stand where we are,” he says quietly. “Until you can.”
The building creaks around us, a long, low sound like stone settling into a decision. Outside, wind moves through hollow streets and broken towers, carrying with it the promise of whatever tomorrow will demand.
Korr rises smoothly, returning to his watch position, but something has shifted. I lean back against the wall, eyes closing despite myself. Sleep tugs at me, heavier now, threaded with images of stone and shadow and arms that hold without asking anything in return. As consciousness drifts, one thought lingers, stubborn and unwelcome.
If he stays, everything changes.
And if he leaves… I don’t know if I’ll survive it a second time.
A sound wakes me.
