"Okay. But if you change your mind, just say the word."
"I will." She pulls back just enough to look at me. Her eyes are red-rimmed, and her expression is raw and open in a way that makes me physically ache.
She stares at me for a long moment. Then she presses her forehead to mine and exhales, and the breath comes out shaky but steadier than before.
"Thank you, mate," she whispers.
The word undoes me. Not with desire this time, but with a feeling that reaches into the marrow of my bones.
"Always," I tell her. "I've got you. Always."
We don't sleep again for a while. Instead, we lie in our shelter, face to face, and talk in soft voices. She tells me about the first weeks in the facility, about the terror and the confusion and the painful experiments. She tells me things I suspect she hasn't told anyone, not even Dr. Singh. Dark things. Hard things. Things that settle into my gut like stones.
I don't flinch. I don't look away. I hold her, and I listen, because that's what she needs.
When she's finished, we lie in silence for a long time.
Then I tell her about the worst night of my dad's illness.
I've never told anyone this. Not my mom or my sisters. Not my squad. Not Dr. Singh, who would have a field day with the fact that I watched suffering no son should see at sixteen and spent the next fifteen years pretending it didn't affect me as deeply as it did. I told myself I'd dealt with it. Moved on. But the words come out now like they've been waiting behind a door I forgot I locked.
"It's not the same," I say. "I know that. What happened to you… I can't even begin to compare?—"
"Do not diminish your grief to make room for mine." A'Vanti's voice is firm. "Loss is loss. Love is love. They do not require the same scale to be equally real."
That breaks open a vault inside me that I've been keeping sealed for a long time. And I'm terrified, because once it's open, I don't know if I can close it again. But A'Vanti's hand is steady in mine, and she's looking at me like I'm worth holding together, and for the first time, I let someone else carry the weight. Just for a moment. Just long enough to breathe.
I pull her close, and she pulls me closer, and we hold each other in the hazy blue glow of an underground spring on an alien planet. We're two people who found each other across the vast, unlikely distance of space, carrying their grief and their gratitude like twin flames.
Eventually, she falls asleep again. Her breathing deepens, her grip loosens, and the lines of tension in her face smooth away.
This time, I stay awake. I watch her face in the dim light, the gentle flutter of her eyelids, the slow rise and fall of her chest. I keep watch, because that's what a vel'shar does.
Sometime later, I sleep too.
The next daypasses like a gift.
I wake to A'Vanti already up, crouched at the edge of the main pool, splashing water on her face. She looks better, more rested, despite everything. The shadows under her eyes have faded, and there's a looseness to her posture that wasn't there yesterday. The springs are working their ancient magic, or perhaps she's more at peace. Maybe both.
"Morning," I call from the shelter.
She turns, and the smile she gives me is sunrise over the desert. Bright and golden and full of promise. "Good morning, mate."
The word hits me like a shot of espresso to the heart. I grin so wide it hurts.
"You're doing that on purpose now."
"I have no idea what you're talking about." She rises gracefully and crosses to our rations. "I was simply greeting my mate. A perfectly normal thing for a Cerastean female to do."
"Uh huh."
"It is not my fault that the word has a particular effect on you."
"On me? You're the one who dragged me bodily across a cave yesterday when I said it."
"That was a biological response. Entirely involuntary." She says, giving the tent I'm making of our blanket a pointed glance while handing me a protein bar. "What is your excuse?"
I have no comeback for this. She wins. I'm starting to suspect this is what my life looks like now, and I'm absolutely fine with it.
