KALLUM
Iwoke to the smell of coffee and the unfamiliar ache of stitches pulling against my skin.
Morning light filtered through the kitchen windows. I was still on the table where she’d left me, a blanket draped over my legs that I didn’t remember her putting there. My side throbbed with every breath, a dull reminder of how close I’d come to something permanent.
She was at the stove, her back to me. Her hair was loose, falling past her shoulders, and I watched her move for a moment before she realized I was awake. The economy of movement Torek had taught her, present even in small tasks.
“Coffee’s ready,” she said without turning.
“How long was I out?”
“All night. You needed it.”
I sat up slowly. The stitches held. She’d done good work.
“Any movement?”
“Nothing on sensors. The survivors are still regrouping somewhere in the hills.” She turned then, holding two cups. Her face was composed, unreadable, but her eyes found the bandages on my side before meeting mine. “How do you feel?”
“Functional.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
I took the cup she offered. Our fingers brushed in the transfer. Neither of us pulled away.
“Better,” I admitted, “than I expected.”
She sat in the chair across from me. I could read the shadows under her eyes, the slight tension in her shoulders. She hadn’t slept. Had spent the night watching the perimeter while I was unconscious, vulnerable, trusting her to keep us both alive.
That trust should have felt dangerous. It felt like relief instead.
“About last night,” she started.
“Yes.”
She paused. “Yes what? I haven’t asked anything yet.”
“Whatever the question is. The answer is yes.”
Her eyes changed. Surprise, maybe. Or something warmer.
“You don’t know what I was going to say.”
“I know what Iwantyou to say.”
She set down her cup. Stood. Crossed the space between us. Three steps. Deliberate. Like she’d made a decision and refused to second-guess it.
“What do you want me to say?” she asked.
I reached for her. My hand found her hip, pulled her closer until she was standing between my knees. The position put her face level with mine, her eyes green and searching.
“That you meant it,” I said. “Last night. The kiss. That it wasn’t just adrenaline or gratitude or proximity.”
“It wasn’t.”
“Then what was it?”
She leaned in. Her hands came up to my shoulders, careful to avoid the bandages, and her forehead touched mine.
