“I’m serious, Kaz.”
He turns. Blue eyes catching starlight, mouth tugged into something not quite a smile.
“So am I.”
Gods, he looks… calm. But not in the lazy, cocky way he usually does. This is quieter. Calmer. Like he’s been flying full burn for weeks and finally let the engines cool.
I hate how my pulse picks up.
I walk to the far end of the railing, putting a good ten feet of star-splashed metal between us. I grip it, knuckles blanching white, and stare out at the glittering vacuum.
We’re quiet a long moment.
Then I say it.
“We can’t keep doing this.”
Kaz doesn’t answer right away. Doesn’t scoff or joke. Just shifts his weight and leans back against the rail, head tilting toward me slightly.
“Doing what?”
“This.” I wave a hand between us like it’s obvious. “The flirting. The late-night meetings. The almosts.”
He shrugs, slow and lazy. “You showed up.”
“I know.”
“So maybe you want the almosts just as bad as I do.”
He doesn’t say it like a challenge. More like an observation. And somehow that makes it worse.
I exhale through my teeth, jaw tight. “That’s not the point.”
He steps a little closer, and I don’t move. Can’t. My boots feel bolted to the floor.
“So what is the point, Nova?” he asks, voice softer now. “Why’d you come?”
I look away, throat tightening. The stars blur for a second, and I blink fast. Damn it. Not here. Not with him.
“My father died in this war,” I say suddenly, surprising even myself. The words spill out sharp and sudden, like a snapped wire. “He flew a scout run into Coalition territory during the Siege of Epsilon Theta. Didn’t make it back. They didn’t even send a body. Just his tags. Burnt at the edges.”
Kaz is quiet. No snark. No comeback. Just that silence again, stretching out like the distance between galaxies.
“He always said… if you’re gonna fly, do it for something real. Something worth it. Not just medals. Not glory. Something that matters.”
Kaz steps beside me, slow, deliberate. Close enough I feel the heat of him but not enough to touch.
“You think I don’t fly for something?”
I glance at him. “You fly like you’re trying to outrun yourself.”
He winces. Not visibly, but it’s there—in the way his mouth tightens, the way his fingers flex once against the rail.
“You’re not wrong,” he says quietly. “I used to fly because I liked winning. Because it made me feel like I mattered.”
“And now?”
“Now?” He shrugs again, but it’s heavier this time. “Now I fly because I don’t know how to stop.”
