Page 331 of Reaper Said Mine

“Yes.”

“Even from people we disliked.”

“An unfortunate diplomatic development.”

I smile.

He places one massive hand over mine against the glass. His warmth covers my knuckles, steady and real.

“I once thought purpose meant being the only thing standing between danger and my people,” he says. “It was a narrow purpose, but I understood it.”

“And now?”

“Now I think purpose may be building something that does not require me to stand in front of everyone forever.”

That nearly undoes me.

I turn toward him fully. The promenade continues around us, full of voices and cargo sleds and the ordinary chaos of recovery, but the bond draws the moment inward until the world becomes him, me, and the future neither of us expected to survive long enough to consider.

“That sounds like peace,” I say.

His mouth curves faintly. “Peace sounds suspiciously like maintenance.”

“It is maintenance.”

“Then I will require staff.”

“You have staff.”

“They are irritating.”

“All staff are irritating. That is how you know they’re not slaves.”

He laughs, and the sound rolls through me warm and deep.

We continue walking until we reach the end of the promenade, where the view opens toward the Badlands. The nebula clouds glow beyond the station in bands of violet, copper, and deep blue, beautiful and dangerous as ever. The region is still scarred. The politics remain fragile. The Accord will be tested. Powerful people will attempt to hide things again because power has a repetitive imagination.

But the lanes are open.

The station is rebuilding.

Open Signal is broadcasting.

Gnash is no longer living only to punish the past.

I am no longer living only to prove I survived it.

He stands beside me, his hand wrapped around mine, and for once neither of us is preparing to run toward an alarm.

“I need to tell you something,” I say.

His expression turns wary. “That phrase has often preceded trouble.”

“This is good trouble.”

“I distrust the category.”

“I’m staying.”