“No.”
He doesn’t soften it. He’s stating facts.
I fall silent for a few steps, adjusting to the new direction, recalibrating my expectations the same way I’ve been forced to do with everything since he grabbed me out of the loading zone.
Because if I’ve come to understand anything about him, it’s that this is what he does. He doesn’t choose the best option. He chooses the one that keeps me alive. Even if it looks worse. Even if it feels wrong. Even if I hate it.
I glance back once at the city. At the structures that still look like salvation from a distance. At the drones crossing above them in perfect, controlled arcs. At the figures moving below like they already know exactly where anyone coming in would have to pass.
The transport disappears behind the dune, hidden from sight as if it was never there at all. The realization settles, heavy and undeniable.
That place isn’t safety. It’s a net.
I turn toward the harsher terrain. Toward the direction he chose, because right now he’s the only thing out here that isn’t lying to me.
14
LEENA
The terrain changes fast.
It looked like scattered rock breaking through the dunes, but up close, it’s sharp, jagged ridges pushing up through the sand at uneven angles, with narrow cuts between them where the wind doesn’t move as freely. It’s not shelter, but it’s not open ground.
I adjust my footing as we descend, the sand thinning where stone takes over, the ground harder, less forgiving. Each step has to be placed instead of taken. He doesn’t slow, which is exhausting, but I get it. He’s relentless, but then I can only imagine that after all he’s been through, it makes sense. He’d have to be to have survived.
The hum doesn’t come back, which should feel like relief, but it doesn’t. It feels more like whatever is out there doesn’t need to rush anymore.
I scan the sky, nervous, tracking the glare of the twin suns across the broken edges of the rock, watching for any distortion thatdoesn’t belong. I don’t see anything, but I also know that means nothing.
“They’ll adjust to this,” I say, more to fill the silence than because I think he needs to hear it. “Less visibility, sure, but tighter movement corridors. If they’re coordinating air and ground, they’ll?—”
“I know.”
The interruption is quiet, but not dismissive. I exhale slowly and let the rest of the thought go. Of course he knows. He’s been moving like this since it started.
The path narrows as we move deeper into the rock formations, the dunes giving way to tighter spaces where the sand collects in pockets instead of sweeping clean across the surface, offering better concealment but worse mobility. Trade-offs. Always trade-offs.
I step down into a shallow cut between two ridges and my foot slips. I catch myself against the rock. His hand is on me before I finish the movement. Fast. Automatic. Too fast.
“I’ve got it,” I say, out of reflex, but he doesn’t let go.
The contact lingers, his grip firm around my arm, steadying, anchoring… holding. My chest tightens. His grip is cool, almost refreshing, and on some level it’s welcome. My skin flushes warmer where his fingers grip and my heart beats faster.
“That’s not necessary,” I whisper.
His gaze shifts to me. Brief. Focused, but not entirely there. The feeling from before presses back in—that edge, that difference.
“You’re slowing,” he says.
Protests fill my thoughts, but I don’t say them because he’s right. Denying it would be useless. I cannot keep up with him. I’ve done my best, but I’m reaching the limit of what I can do. Every part of my body hurts.
“I’m adjusting,” I say, instead of lying.
He slowly eases his grip. Not fully, and not immediately. He does it layer by layer. I stare into his eyes, waiting, but some part of me is hoping. For what, I’m not sure—until I see it. A flash of recognition. Of him being here, in this moment with me, and not wherever he escaped from.
He drops his hand, his gaze lowering to it as if his own limb is something foreign. Something that is acting without his direct will, then he looks back up, meeting my eyes. He frowns, shakes his head, and shrugs. He doesn’t say it, but I feel the apology, so I nod.
We continue through the narrow pass. I force my attention back to the terrain instead of the way his hand felt because that’s not helpful. Especially right now.
