SIX
LOVE & WAR
ARIA
The first thing I feel is warmth. The second is the weight of being watched. I don’t open my eyes right away, just listen to the slow rhythm of another breath close enough to touch. It’s steady, familiar. Too familiar.
Dawn breaks soft and pink over the snow, the kind of light that doesn’t belong to a world like ours. The storm quieted, but the silence it left behind is heavier than before. The heater hums low, the fire barely alive in the barrel stove.
I open my eyes. Steel’s there, sitting against the workbench where he must’ve been all night, one arm draped over his knee, watching me. He looks like a man who hasn’t slept in months. His face is unreadable, all shadow and edges, haunted and beautiful in a way that makes my chest ache.
“You shouldn’t have come,” he says, voice low and rough from whiskey and ghosts.
I sit up, the blanket slipping down my shoulders. “Good morning to you, too.”
His mouth almost curves. Almost. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“Too late to fix that.” I stretch, bones stiff from sleeping half-curled on the floor. “You got coffee, or do Saints run on pure attitude now?”
He grunts, stands, and crosses to the counter. The motion’s too fluid, too controlled, like he’s doing it to avoid looking at me. “Pot’s busted. Power’s still down.”
I laugh, brittle. “Then stop looking at me like you’re glad I came.”
That stops him cold. His hand tightens on the mug he’s holding. The muscle in his jaw jumps once.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” he says finally, but the lie lands softly.
“Right,” I murmur. “Because you’re all business. Always were.”
He sets the mug down hard enough that it rattles. “You left, Aria.”
The words drop like a blade. “I know.”
“No,” he snaps, turning. “You don’t. I buried him, and you vanished.”
My stomach twists. “You think I don’t live with that?”
“You think living with it’s the same as being here?” He slams his fist against the bench. The sound cracks through the garage like thunder.
The ring on his chain catches the light, swinging once before it settles. My voice shakes when I speak. “You were drowning, Steel. You were drowning, and I couldn’t…”
“You could’ve stayed,” he cuts in, voice sharp enough to bleed. “You could’ve said something instead of running.”
I stand, the cot creaking under me. “You wouldn’t have heard me. You only listen to engines and ghosts.”
He steps forward, anger and pain twisting together in his eyes. “And you only come back when it’s safe to play savior.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Neither is life under a patch.”
The space between us burns. I shove him, hard. “You hide behind that gavel and call it duty. You think leadership’s an excuse for turning into him.”
He grabs my wrist before I can shove him again. The heat of his hand sears through my skin. “Let go.”
He doesn’t. “No.” The word’s a promise and a threat. My pulse jumps. His eyes drop to my mouth, and I forget what air feels like.
“Isaiah…”
