He collapses beside me, gathering me against him.
His chest heaves under my cheek. I listen to the thunder of his heart, still racing. He strokes my hair, silent.
Then: “Thank you,” he whispers, voice raw.
I kiss his scars, every one. “Thank you for coming home.”
The night is quiet again. Outside, crickets trill. Wind hums at the windows. Inside, we lie tangled—sweaty, sated, safe. The lamp’s glow fades, but neither of us moves.
Here, in this breathless aftermath, everything finally makes sense.
I wake to his pulse under my ear, the soft hum of his cybernetic core syncing with my heartbeat. The mid-night lamp pours a golden glow across our tangled limbs, half shadows dancing. His arms wrap me, holding me tight as though the world might vanish without that hold.
We move together slowly, each motion deliberate, as though we’ve been holding our breath for lifetimes waiting for this. His skin tastes like salt and sweat, like war won and home regained. My fingers trace the scars along his ribs, along his back, between his shoulder blades, learning the terrain of him. He moans low, a sound that trembles through me.
“I needed you,” he whispers. “More than fear, more than survival.”
I press closer. “I know,” I breathe. “I waited too.”
His lips drift to my neck, then press kisses down to my collarbone. I shiver. The quilt soft against my skin, the air warm, my body open. No urgency, no panic—just surrender. Years melt into muscles, into heat, into the shared silence between my sighs and his heart.
We shift, gentle, exploring parts of each other that had to lie dormant while the world screamed. He touches the hollow behind my ear, that tiny hollow I never let anyone reach. His fingers circle there. I cry out low, but not in shame or fear—in release. In relief.
He pulls me so I lie against his chest. He lies on his side, arm beneath me. I press my head flat against him. His core hums beneath my palm. I let myself feel it: his life, his engine, his hope.
He draws lazy circles on my arm, thumb brushing over freckles, over scars, over skin softened by moonlight and safety. I smell him — faint metal, sweat, skin warmed under his body. The hum is a gentle lullaby.
“I never thought I’d be worthy of peace,” he murmurs in the quiet.
I lift my head, stroke his cheek with my fingers. “You are,” I say, voice small but steady. “To me, you always were.”
His breath catches. He presses me tighter and I feel something like relief—and sorrow, and joy—knot in my chest.Outside, the Earth wind sighs through the trees, leaves rustling against windows, the world asleep and awake at once.
Inside, nothing needs fixing. Not anymore.
We lie like that, wrapped in each other, listening to machines and hearts and soft breathing. Hours pass in silence, broken only by whispers.
I trace his scars again. “I’m so tired,” I say.
He brushes his lips over my hair. “But we’re here.”
I nod. “Here.”
He tucks his cheek in my hair, voice muffled. “Stay with me a little longer.”
I press closer, letting the quilt be warm against us, letting the world outside drift away. The hum of his core, the pounding of my heart—they’re a single song now.
We fall asleep tangled, safe for the first time in years. The wind plays against windows. The night hums. And I know: this is what we fought for. This is home.
CHAPTER 29
KYLDAK
Iwake before dawn, eyes still heavy with yesterday’s dreams, but the room already knows I’m awake. The moonlight filters through the window, soft silver fingers across our sheets. Jaela lies beside me, tangled in quilt and pillows, breathing slow and even. Her lashes rest on her cheeks, her lips parted just so. In the pale glow, I see everything I never allowed myself to hope for. I never imagined softness in my life—yet here she is, in every quiet curve of bone and breath. Stronger than anyone I’ve ever known.
I slip out of bed, careful not to wake her. The floor is cold under my boots. Every lean shadow screams of fragility and home. I pause at the door, glance back at her, hair fanned across pillows, shoulders loosened in sleep. My chest aches with something fierce and merciless. Then I move.
The halls are dark and quiet, the hush of this house pulling me forward. I pass the greenhouse, windows frosted with dew, a scent of night jasmine drifting in. Beyond, the first hints of dawn tint the sky. I find Kel’s room—soft light glowing within. The door’s open a crack, children’s toys pooled in a corner, a small soft rug beneath the bed.
