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“You observe like a man composing a very dramatic inner monologue.”
“That is a serious accusation.”
“It’s also accurate. I know your broody face and your peacefully broody face now.”
Sira’s mouth curves. “Peacefully broody is a useful distinction.”
“I object to my emotional taxonomy being discussed on the command deck,” I say.
Anita grins. “Look at that. He objects like a philosopher now.”
“I was a soldier for many years.”
“Sure, but lately you sound less like ‘hold the line’ and more like ‘what is the line, and who benefits from holding it?’”
Brakk groans through the comm. “Please do not encourage philosophical security. I need him intimidating, not footnoted.”
I look at Anita. “Do I sound like a philosopher?”
She steps closer, eyes bright with mischief and tenderness. “A little.”
“That is unfortunate.”
“It’s cute.”
“I have never been cute.”
“You are extremely cute when you’re pretending not to be emotionally evolved.”
Sira says, “I agree.”
Brakk adds, “I do not, but only because I value survival.”
Anita laughs, and the sound moves through me with the same power it did on Nareth-Kul, in the med-bay, in the shrine, in our quarters, and in every quiet morning after. I once thought recognition made love inevitable. I know better now. Recognition opened my eyes. Everything after was labor, terror, tenderness, argument, forgiveness, patience, and choice.
Fate may have introduced us.
Love became real because we returned to it deliberately.
Anita comes to stand beside my chair and lowers her voice. “Where did you go?”
“Here.”
She studies me, then smiles softly. “Good answer.”
“I was thinking that I am no longer afraid of uncertainty.”
Her expression changes, humor giving way to something deeper. “No?”
“No. I respect it. I do not worship it. I do not mistake it for safety. But I am not afraid of a future unwritten by gods.”
She touches my shoulder, her fingers warm through my tunic. “That is a hell of a thing, Ghar.”
“Yes.”
“And very philosopher-soldier of you.”
“I accept the insult.”
