“I remember trying not to rip it off you in the orchid garden.”
She snorts, but it’s not a laugh. “Of course you do.”
We keep walking.
The path curves beneath a bridge lit in bioluminescent blue. Soft artificial wind tousles her hair.
“I missed this,” I say.
“You missed the trees?”
“No. The way you walk like you own gravity.”
She stops.
Turns.
“That’s the line you open with?”
I shrug. “I’m rusty.”
She crosses her arms. “What do you want, Garokk?”
I stare at her.
Gods, she’s fire and steel and every mistake I ever made wrapped in skin I still dream about.
“I wanted to remember who we were before I wrecked it.”
“That person’s dead,” she says. “You helped bury her.”
“I know. But I thought maybe... if I could walk beside what’s left?—”
She steps forward.
Fast.
Sharp.
Her finger jabs my chest.
“I raised our son in silence. While you burned through the galaxy like a goddamn comet. You don’t get to rewrite that.”
“I’m not trying to.”
She narrows her eyes. “Then what is this? Guilt? Nostalgia?”
“Both. And maybe something I don’t have a name for yet.”
The wind picks up. Or maybe it’s just the silence again, howling.
We walk on.
Eventually, she says, “You still snore like a kraken?”
“I’ve upgraded. I purr now. Very regal.”
She smirks. “You’re still a liar.”
