Then she does it.
Leans in.
Just a soft, questioning press of her lips to mine.
I stop breathing.
She tastes like orange fizzywater and salted tears. Her mouth is warm, tentative, and real. I cup her face—careful,alwayscareful—and kiss her like she’s something holy I’ve been too long denied.
“Troka…” she whispers.
I hum low in my chest, not pulling away, not pushing. Justthere. Solid. Hers.
She breaks the kiss first.
Steps back like she touched fire.
“Goodnight,” she says, voice small.
Then she’s gone, the door hissing shut between us.
I stand on her porch like a slab of stone, one hand still hanging in midair, stupid and empty.
I want to knock again. Ask why.
Instead, I turn and walk.
My boots echo down the quiet street, each step heavier than the last.
Later, I’m back in my crashpad, lights low, heat unit ticking.
I punch the wall.
Leave a dent.
Next day, I show up at the dealership like nothing happened.
“Morning, big guy,” the manager grunts.
I grunt back.
Sell two hoverbikes, three beat-up transports, and a reconditioned luxury glider with one seatbelt and no left mirror.
But all I see all damn day is her face.
After my shift, I walk back to her place.
I don’t knock this time.
I wait.
She comes out with the baby on her hip.
Stops cold when she sees me.
“Thought you’d say goodnight. Not... stalk me.”
“I didn’t want to leave it like that.”
