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“I remember trying not to rip it off you in the orchid garden.”

She snorts, but it’s not a laugh. “Of course you do.”

We keep walking.

The path curves beneath a bridge lit in bioluminescent blue. Soft artificial wind tousles her hair.

“I missed this,” I say.

“You missed the trees?”

“No. The way you walk like you own gravity.”

She stops.

Turns.

“That’s the line you open with?”

I shrug. “I’m rusty.”

She crosses her arms. “What do you want, Garokk?”

I stare at her.

Gods, she’s fire and steel and every mistake I ever made wrapped in skin I still dream about.

“I wanted to remember who we were before I wrecked it.”

“That person’s dead,” she says. “You helped bury her.”

“I know. But I thought maybe... if I could walk beside what’s left?—”

She steps forward.

Fast.

Sharp.

Her finger jabs my chest.

“I raised our son in silence. While you burned through the galaxy like a goddamn comet. You don’t get to rewrite that.”

“I’m not trying to.”

She narrows her eyes. “Then what is this? Guilt? Nostalgia?”

“Both. And maybe something I don’t have a name for yet.”

The wind picks up. Or maybe it’s just the silence again, howling.

We walk on.

Eventually, she says, “You still snore like a kraken?”

“I’ve upgraded. I purr now. Very regal.”

She smirks. “You’re still a liar.”