Life continued.
He stepped closer—not crowding, just near enough that warmth moved easily between us.
“I have patrol this afternoon,” he said. “Western ridge.”
Routine. Expected.
“You’ll be back by evening meal.”
“Yes.”
The certainty of it settled cleanly.
I reached up, smoothing a crease from his sleeve that didn’t need smoothing. “Then we’ll eat together.”
His hand covered mine briefly, anchoring it there. “Yes.”
We stood like that a moment longer, suspended in something quiet and steady.
And the realization came without warning: I hadn’t felt this grounded in years.
Not since before the war ended. Not since before everything sharp and bright had been worn down into survival.
Happiness felt unfamiliar in my body.
Too light.
Too hopeful.
But I didn’t push it away.
He rested his forehead briefly against mine.
“We should begin the day.”
“Yes.”
We stepped into the corridor together, falling into rhythm without thinking about it.
No announcement. No visible shift.
Just two people who already shared space… now sharing something more.
The mountain had a rhythm once you stopped expecting it to feel like open sky.
Morning came in layers—light through vents, pumps shifting pitch, and voices rising as work began. I knew which sounds meant safety. Which meant caution. I knew where Rygnar would be if he weren’t on patrol.
I trusted that answer.
That was the dangerous part.
The day unfolded gently. I spent hours in the infirmary, repacking supplies and helping Mara with a stubborn piece of equipment that refused to stay calibrated. At midday, children ran through the corridors with laughter sharp enough to echo. Life, fragile and stubborn, pressed on.
Fragile. Stubborn. Alive.
When Rygnar left, he didn’t make it dramatic. No speeches, no promises beyond the practical.
“I’ll return before dark,” he reminded me, resting his forehead briefly against mine where no one else could see.
