The Prime and Cullen locked eyes, and the exchange lasted a beat too long. There was something there, respect, certainly, but also recognition. The kind that passes between twosoldiers who understand what it means to sacrifice everything for duty. Or maybe something more.
"Your expertise would be invaluable," the Prime said, her voice softer than I'd ever heard it.
"When would you need me?" Cullen asked, casting a glance in my direction. "We'll need Xytol to implant a believable reason for my absence. Presidential appointment, perhaps?"
"The Alliance ship departs the Milky Way in seventy-two hours," The Prime said, a tinge of excitement creeping into her voice.
Cullen nodded once. "Then I'd better start packing." He rose to his feet, and I would swear, his movements were lighter somehow, as though the grief that had weighed upon him for years had suddenly dissipated.
"You're really doing this," I said, not quite a question.
"I really am." He managed a small smile, and I saw a spark in his eyes that had been absent for far too long.
Rickon clasped his shoulder. “You'll do well in the Alliance."
"Take care of her," Cullen said, nodding toward me. "She's a handful."
"I've noticed," Rickon replied with a slight grin.
Cullen turned to me, and for a moment, the Admiral disappeared, replaced by the friend who'd stood by me through my husband's death, election nights, and assassination attempts. "Ellie, it's been the honor of my life serving under you. Dalton would be proud."
I pulled him into a fierce hug, blinking back the tears that burned behind my eyes. "You're not dying, Cullen. You're just going to space." Even as I said it, my heart broke a little.
"To the stars," he murmured. Then, quieter, "Thank you. For everything."
When he pulled back, his eyes were bright but clear.
He gave us one final salute—crisp, perfect, unmistakably Cullen—and walked out of the room toward whatever waited for him among the stars.
The door clicked shut behind Cullen, and the silence that followed felt impossibly heavy. I stood frozen, staring at the empty doorway, my chest tight with an ache I couldn't name.
"Ellie." Rickon's voice came soft beside me.
The first tear slipped down my cheek before I could stop it. Then another. I pressed my hand to my mouth, trying to hold it together, but my shoulders shook anyway.
Without a word, he scooped me up, one arm beneath my knees, the other around my back, and carried me to the sofa. He settled into the cushions with me curled in his lap, my face pressed against his chest.
"I'm being ridiculous," I mumbled against his shirt, my voice muffled.
"No, you’re not," he insisted, his fingers threading through my hair with infinite gentleness. "You just said goodbye to one of your closest friends."
"He's not dying. He's just...."
"Going somewhere you can't follow." Rickon's hand moved in slow, soothing circles on my back. "It's allowed to hurt."
I let myself cry then, really cry, the kind of ugly, gasping sobs I never allowed myself in public. The weight of everything that had happened over the few weeks crashed down on me all at once, no longer held at bay by adrenaline and the desperate need to survive.
Rickon knelt beside her, his hand finding hers, but he said nothing. There was nothing to say. They had won, but the cost had been terrible. The faces of the agent who had died for no more reason than being born human. The people I thought I could trust who been swayed to darkness for nothing more thana dollar sign. I cried for everything and Rickon held me through all of it, one hand cradling the back of my head, while the other arm wrapped securely around my waist. He didn't try to fix or minimize my upset. He just held me, his presence solid and unwavering.
This was what I loved most about him. The tenderness. The easy affection. All day long, we played our roles. President Bradford and her lead Secret Service agent, maintaining perfect professional distance in every meeting, every hallway, every public appearance. But here, in my private residence, the masks came off. Here, I could be just Ellie, and he could be just Rickon. I could sit in his lap and cry without worrying about appearing weak.
His lips brushed my temple. "Better?"
I nodded against his chest, my breathing finally evening out. "How do you always know exactly what I need?"
"Practice," he said, and I could hear the smile in his voice. "Also, you're not as complicated as you think you are."
I swatted his shoulder weakly, earning a low chuckle. His arms tightened around me, and I sank deeper into his embrace, letting his warmth chase away the ache.
