“My people have a word for it,” I say after a second.
“For what?” she asks.
“This,” I reply. “When you choose someone like this. When it’s not about convenience or timing or anything else.”
She tilts her head slightly.
“Alright,” she says. “What’s the word?”
I meet her gaze.
“Mate,” I say.
The word sits there, heavier than anything else I’ve said, not casual, not something I throw around lightly.
Her expression darkens again, something sharper, more focused.
“That’s not a small word,” she says.
“No,” I agree. “It’s not.”
She studies me, searching for hesitation, for anything that would make it less real.
She doesn’t find it.
“Yeah,” she says quietly. “Alright.”
“That’s it?” I ask.
She smirks faintly.
“What, you want a ceremony?” she asks.
“I’d settle for confirmation,” I reply.
She steps closer, closing the last bit of distance between us.
“You’ve got it,” she says.
I nod once.
“Good,” I murmur.
The future stretches out in front of us, undefined, uncertain, but for the first time, it doesn’t feel like something we’re reacting to.
It feels like something we’re choosing.
“So what now?” she asks.
“We get off this station,” I reply. “Find somewhere that doesn’t care who we used to be.”
“And then?” she presses.
I shrug slightly.
“Then we figure it out,” I say. “On our terms.”
She considers that, then nods.
