Something cracks in me. Not breaks—just… shifts. Like a plate beneath the surface finally slipping into place.
“What about Swan?” I ask, voice nearly a whisper. “He’s your wingman. He believes in you. He’s betting his life on your instincts.”
Kaz smiles, but it’s bitter. “Swan’s the only one who sees the worst in me and sticks around anyway. He thinks I’m capable of more than being an ass in a cockpit.”
“Maybe you are.”
He looks at me then—really looks. No smirk. No walls.
“I don’t want to be just good in the sky, Nova. I want to be good for something. For someone.”
My heart stutters. It’s too much. Too close.
“Don’t say things like that.”
“Why not?”
“Because I can’t afford to believe them.”
We fall quiet again. The stars outside shift slowly, the station’s gentle rotation turning the cosmos like a lazy wheel.
Then Kaz says, low and rough, “Vakutan tradition says… when a warrior falls in battle, those left behind sing their names into the night. So the stars remember them.”
My breath catches.
“I used to think that was dumb,” he goes on. “But after losing some people… now it just feels like the least we can do.”
I don’t realize I’m crying until a tear hits my collarbone.
Kaz doesn’t touch me. Doesn’t press.
He just brushes a strand of hair off my face, tucks it behind my ear. His fingers linger near my jaw, warm and reverent.
“Tell me to stop,” he whispers, “and I will.”
I should, but I don’t.
Instead, I lean forward—just an inch—and rest my forehead against his shoulder.
His breath hitches, and then he’s still. Not pulling me closer. Not pushing me away. Just… there.
Solid. Steady.
The silence wraps around us, heavy and intimate.
We stay like that for a long time. Not speaking. Not touching beyond that one quiet point of contact.
And maybe that’s the most dangerous part.
Because this doesn’t feel like lust or distraction or adrenaline.
It feels like something I don’t have a name for.
Eventually, I pull back.
Kaz doesn’t try to stop me.
I turn to go, but at the door, I glance over my shoulder.
