“I didn’t need to,” he says. “You already know.”
I do.
I always have.
And in the quiet after, when the world is soft and golden and kind—I let myself believe.
Maybe this is what home really feels like.
Not walls. Not territory.
Just the right person.
The right touch.
The right yes.
“You are my home,” he murmurs into my hair.
I laugh, breathless and exhausted. “That’s funny. I was just thinking the same thing.”
He kisses the top of my head. “Good.”
We come down from the high. The dressing-room lights glow muted—lamps rather than neon. The hum of the induction cools. My skin still flickers with heat, sweat tracing rivulets down the back of my neck, past the strap of my bodice. Gyon’s armor jacket lies tossed on a chair nearby, metal cool but still warm under my palm where I brushed it. I feel the ridges. The weight of his past. But right now he is here: warm, alive, his breath fluttering against my ear.
I collapse against his chest, fully and utterly. Arms thrown over his shoulders, legs tangled with his. He wraps his arms around me—one strong hand pressed flat across my back, the other cradling the back of my head. His breath comes in deep rasps, the scent of leather and ozone and something indescribablyhisflooding my senses.
“Liora,” he says softly, voice husky. He murmurs something else—in Reaper tongue. I don’t understand the words but I feel the meaning. Something like…You are mine always.
I don’t correct him. I don’t reply. I just close my eyes and listen to his heartbeat—steady, powerful, a drum in the quiet. I feel it against the side of my face, in the cradle of my ear. I rest my cheek there, the silk of my gown shifting under him, sweat cooling into goose-flesh.
My own breath comes in ragged gasps. My chest rises and falls under his hand. Sweat beads on his brow. A strand of his hair sticks to the side of my lip. I lift a finger and brush it away gently. He stills.
“Hey,” I whisper, voice trembling. “You’re real.”
He gives me a small, tired grin. “And you’re mine.”
I taste the faint tang of copper in the air—either from the overhead lights or my own blood pounding in my ears. My heart—I swear—it could break out of my ribs. Itcouldkill me and still leave me alive.
For the first time in years, maybe ever, I’m not afraid of tomorrow.
I press my lips to his chestplate—not the jewelry, not the ceremony props, but the actual worn metal beneath his jacket. I trace the scar-covered plate with my cheek. “Thank you,” I whisper. “For staying.”
He lifts his head and pulls me up enough to look at me. His hair damp, several days’ stubble along his jaw catching the low light like a shadow-scythe.
“I was never leaving,” he says simply. “You—us—are worth every planet I crossed.”
My eyes burn. I swallow hard. “I believed you.” A pause. “I believe you.”
He nods, then kisses me. The kiss is slow, deliberate—painful and perfect. When he lifts me gently and lays me down on the chaise, the room tilts with desire and relief. But I don’t focus on the future or the headlines or the IHC. I focus on this: his warmth. My surrender. Our home.
We lie side by side, sweat-slick and spent. I run my fingers through his damp hair. “Gyon?”
He looks at me. “Yes.”
“Can we… just stay here a minute? No talk of contracts or clearance or press or citizenship.”
He smiles, touches the side of my face. “Yes. We can.”
