But it’s not just hunger. It’s not some fever dream from the past. It’snow.It’s kisses that taste like promises. It’s hands that memorize instead of claim. It’s laughter between gasps, breath caught in my throat, tears I didn’t mean to cry when he whispers, “I never stopped loving you.”
We don’t speak for a long time after.
Words feel small.
Instead, I curl into him, head resting on his chest, his heartbeat like a drum beneath my ear.
Outside, the stars drift.
Inside, we don’t move.
He brushes my hair back.
“I don’t deserve this,” he says softly.
“You didn’t deserve the pain either,” I reply.
His arms tighten.
And then—like it’s the simplest thing in the world—he says, “I want to build something with you. Something that doesn’t burn down.”
I look up at him.
“We already have,” I whisper. “He’s sleeping in the next room.”
And it hits him.
The truth.
The hope.
The terrifying, beautiful possibility ofmore.
He kisses me again.
Softer this time.
And we fall asleep like that—wrapped in each other, no weapons drawn, no lies left between us.
Just skin and breath.
CHAPTER 31
ISOLDE
The Hulk smells like dust and memory.
We step through the pressure lock, the air stale but breathable, filtered through the last functional scrubs of the old ship’s lungs. The deck creaks under my boots, and even Garokk seems quieter than usual—like the ship’s ghosts are listening, and he doesn’t want to disturb them.
The hallway lights flicker as if in protest. They still haven’t fixed the main feed to corridor gamma—not that it matters anymore. No one's staying behind.
This place—once a monster in orbit, feared and revered—is empty now. The last crew shipped out a week ago, their contracts bought out by the Combine. The central AI has been silenced. No more echoing ship-wide warnings. No more broadcast threats.
Just stillness.
And us.
Garokk walks beside me in his formal gear—well,hisversion of formal. Half-armor, no sleeves, a sash someone made him wear for the ceremony earlier. I see the tension in his jaw as he looks around.
