Standing in light like it owes her something.
Hair coiled, dress blinding, voice smooth and practiced. But I see the tremble. Iseeit. In the way her fingers clutch the scissors like they’re made of teeth. In the way her eyes twitch just slightly at the edges.
Shefeelsme.
Not sees.
Feels.
That’s the way it always was between us. Magnetic. Unstable. Like two storm fronts dragging themselves across the sky just to collide. We didn’t need words. We needed space to burn.
But gods, she’s even more radiant than I remember. Sharper, somehow. Like time honed her into a blade. I want to reach out—just one hand through the grate, just enough to trace the curve of her neck, the line of her jaw. She probably still smells like honeyroot and defiance.
I don’t move.
I don’t even breathe.
Not when the boy steps up beside her.
Small.
Bright.
Coiled energy.
He’s got a stupid glittery jacket on, like some holo-show extra. And I almost laugh. Until he looks up at her and smiles.
It hits me like gravity.
Like a punch to the lungs.
That smile—stars—it’smine.
Not in the physical. Not the cheekbones or the eyes. No. Something deeper. Thedefiance.The edge. The way he plants his feet like the station spins aroundhim.
I stare.
And something in my gut shifts.
“No,” I whisper to myself.
It can’t be.
She wouldn’t?—
Would she?
I track his movements. He’s fidgety. Curious. Clutching her hand like it’s both anchor and shield. She bends toward him. Whispers something. Her smile softens. Real for a second.
Too real.
“Reflector,” I mutter into my comm implant.
The bot crackles in my ear. “You shouldn’t be speaking, Captain. You ordered?—”
“Facial match. Cross-reference boy’s profile with Isolde’s timeline.”
There’s a pause.
