“Jordan,” he says.
I look up at him. “Yeah?”
His jaw works as if he’s fighting words. The silence stretches long enough that I start to wonder if he’s about to order me into another bunker.
Then he does something I don’t expect.
He reaches into his coat.
My body goes alert instantly, because my brain is trained to interpret “reaching into coat” as “weapon.”
Lonari notices my micro-flinch and huffs, irritated.
“I’m not going to shoot you,” he mutters.
“That’s what people say right before?—”
He gives me a look so deadpan I almost laugh.
Then he pulls out a small object.
Not a gun.
Not a comm.
A ring.
Not glittery. Not flashy. Clean metal with a subtle inset—something that looks like it could survive a brawl and still mean something.
My breath catches.
Lonari stares at it like it might bite him.
“This is,” he says slowly, like he’s forcing each word through his teeth, “not how my people do it.”
I blink, stunned. “Your people propose?”
His mouth twitches. “My people make arrangements. They trade vows like contracts and pretend it’s romance.”
I can’t help it—I laugh, a real one, startled and slightly hysterical. “That’s… grim.”
“It’s accurate,” he says, then clears his throat like he’s annoyed with his own vulnerability. “But I’m not doing that.”
My chest feels too full. The wind hits my face and suddenly I’m aware of every sensation: the cold air, the warmth of my own skin, the distant smell of frying oil, the way my heart is pounding like it’s trying to escape and also stay.
Lonari holds the ring out awkwardly, as if he’s not sure which hand position makes him look less like a man surrendering.
He opens his mouth.
Closes it.
Then finally he says, blunt and half-human and half-Grolgath ritual:
“I want you with me. Openly. Not as a secret. Not as a shield. Not as a… temporary alliance.”
I swallow. My throat hurts.
Lonari’s eyes lock onto mine, intense.
