He looked worn—armor dented, shadows under his eyes, dried med-gel faint along his jaw. But when he saw me, something in his expression eased.
“You should be asleep.”
“So should you.”
A faint smile. “The mountain doesn’t sleep.”
I stepped closer. “Veklan told me you disobeyed orders.”
“He told me he would.” A small shrug. “He would have done the same.”
“Still… you shouldn’t have had to.”
He studied me. “Do you regret that I did?”
“No.” The answer came easily. “I regret that it was necessary.”
He nodded once.
His hand lifted, hesitated, then rested lightly against my face—testing, as if confirming I was still here.
“You’re safe now,” he said.
I leaned into the touch. “Because of you.”
“Because of us,” he said quietly. “You warned them. You kept the children moving. You made it harder for them to take anything.”
I didn’t argue.
I just reached up and laced my fingers through his.
For a while, we stood like that in the quiet. The air still carried the scent of rain and burned circuitry. Somewhere deeper in the tunnels, someone laughed—thin, tired, but real.
“You could have left,” he said. “After the attack. Found somewhere safer.”
“Where?” I asked. “There isn’t one.”
“There might be. The patrols are returning. The enclaves are rebuilding.”
“Maybe.” I met his gaze. “But not fast enough. Not like this.”
I gestured lightly toward the surrounding tunnels.
“Here, people build something that lasts. You built this. Why would I run from it?”
He didn’t answer right away. His thumb brushed slowly across the back of my hand.
“Because peace is fragile,” he said. “And you’re not used to staying when things break.”
“Then teach me.”
Something shifted in his expression—quiet, unexpected.
“Gladly,” he said.
Later, I lay on my cot, the lights dimmed to starlight. The mountain breathed through its vents, steady and constant.
The world outside was still broken.
