“I’ll be here,” I replied. It wasn’t a vow. It was simply true.
Waiting wasn’t new to me. But this time it had weight.
I kept busy. I reorganized the shelves that didn’t need it. I checked the vent readings twice. Every so often, I caught myself listening for his steps.
They came as the lamps dimmed, when I had been back in our quarters for a few hours. I worried. It was later than Rygnar expected to return. My worry was not unfounded because I knew what could be out there.
The door unsealed, and there he was—dust on his boots, fatigue in the lines around his eyes, very much alive.
Relief hit me so hard my knees went weak.
“You’re bleeding,” I said automatically.
“Barely.”
That wasn’t the point. I took Ragnar’s wrist and pulled him toward the bench before he could protest. The cut was shallow, already scabbed, but I cleaned it anyway. My hands shook more than the task required.
“They didn’t cross the ridge,” he said. “No sign of them turning back toward us.”
“So, we bought time.”
“Yes.”
I finished the bandage and looked up at him. “I don’t like how much that mattered to me.”
His gaze softened. “Neither do I.”
The words settled between us, heavy and honest.
The lights dimmed further, the mountain easing toward night. Outside, wind whispered along the stone like something testing the edges.
“I waited,” I said quietly.
He nodded. “I know.”
“You're late—”
“Only a little,” he said gently. “I’m here now.”
He reached for me and I went into his arms without hesitation. I knew from the look in his eyes that he wanted me.
I stepped closer. No words were needed.
The kiss was deeper this time—no question left in it. Built from trust, from choice, from everything we had not rushed.
When we moved together, it wasn’t about forgetting the world beyond the mountain. It was about choosing each other anyway.
What followed wasn’t hurried. It unfolded with the same care we had learned everywhere else—in work, in touch, in trust. Every movement was deliberate. Every response was answered.
The world narrowed again, but differently this time—not from fear, not from survival. From connection. From something we had chosen.
Afterward, we lay tangled together, breath slowly evening out.
There was a quiet rightness to it. Not just the closeness—but the way neither of us tried to pull away from it.
His arm tightened slightly around me, not enough to restrain—just enough to hold.
The warmth beneath his skin shifted again, steady and deliberate, until I realized it wasn’t constant. It was responding. To me.
