I pull up to my sister’s home that evening, lungs still tight from the memory of that crash-mat kiss. The dessert lights flare in the foyer, warm schmutz of domesticity where nothing ever is simple. I tell myself I’m stopping by for dinner—just a sister’s check-in. But I know I’m chasing something else: closure, confession, or just human warmth.
Vira opens the door in panties and a tee, hair in a tumble. She grins. “Late shift?” she asks, voice warm. “Come in. It smells like curry and chaos.”
I step across the threshold, that scent washing over me—spices, onions, burnt garlic, sisterhood. It’s a lullaby I didn’t realize I needed.
We sit across her small table, plates half gone. She’s talking about work, a shipment delay, her new pet—until she slams down her fork and leans forward. “Be honest,” she says. “You’re not here just for dinner.”
My fingers clench the edge of my napkin. My chest flutters.
She tilts her head. “You’re sleeping with him.” Boom—knife blunt and direct.
I snap. “I amnot—” My denial stumbles out, loud. I flush. I feel her eyes. She’s already reading my face.
She doesn’t smirk—not yet—but the corners of her mouth tremble. Then she sighs. “Fine. But if youwere…” She waves a hand. “It wouldn’t surprise me. You two? You ignite stars just walking beside each other.”
I inhale, taste grit and guilt. “It’s not like that.”
She watches me. “Maybe it doesn’t have to bejust that.” She reaches across and squeezes my hand. “He’s a soldier, not a monster. Don’t talk yourself out of something good just because it’s complicated.”
I blink back tears. “You always know exactly what to say.”
She shrugs. “I have a PhD in meddling. It’s a gift.”
We finish dinner in soft silence that feels less safe than the earlier argument. I stand to leave; the night shadows press against the windows. She hugs me tightly. I smell her shampoo, cinnamon. She whispers, “Promise me you’ll tell him something real soon.”
I nod, voice small: “Maybe.”
Back at the rehab center, the corridors hum. The air smells of sterile floors, equipment heat, quiet dread. I step into the garden path and see him—I knew he would be here—standing beneath the biolum shade trees, knee-brace in place, awkward and strong.
When he turns, he holds up a thermos. “Vakutan tea.” His voice cracks less than I expect. He’s stolen it. Or borrowed. It smells strong, floral, bittersweet. He holds it out.
I take it, heat slipping through the metal mug. The steam curls. My fingers twitch. We sit on the bench under vines that glow faint green, casting soft light on his face.
He watches the steam swirl. “I’m going to the rally tomorrow. The one they banned.”
I still taste the tea at my lips. “That’s dangerous. They’re cracking down. You know what happened to the protesters who spoke out.”
He shrugs, shoulders tight. “Truth always is dangerous.”
I shake my head. “You can’t lead a war in secret and hope it doesn’t burn you alive.”
He turns to me, eyes soft but sharp. “I'm already burned.” He gestures to his scars. “To everything I lost. This is me trying to make something—something worth the ashes.”
I taste the tea, warm and bittersweet. I want to say he’s worth more than ashes. I want to say I believe him. I don’t.
He reaches and brushes a lock of hair behind my ear. My skin pricks. “You don’t have to stay in my ruin. But if you do—” his voice breaks—“I’ll guard you.”
I look at him—guard me. The line is fatal, fragile, true.
He stands. “I should go get rest. Big day.” He should say he’s sorry. He should say he loves me. Instead, he walks away through the garden gate, shadows swallowing him slowly.
I stay, the warm mug in my hands, its steam a ghost between us. The vines sway overhead. Night deepens. My chest aches for words I don’t know how to say. I whisper to the empty bench, “Be careful.”
And in the hush, the promise between us trembles, waiting for breath.
CHAPTER 8
KYLDAK
