Page 108 of Pocket Wife

When all hands answer, open.

The hearing adjourns for the night.

Not victory. Not defeat. A pause. Helix could not stop the panel, and the panel could not force the registry open. The cylinder remains sealed under neutral custody, and Salo has ordered all parties to rest before morning arguments.

Rest.

The word feels impossible.

I find Lucy in the small storage room behind the council chamber, where someone has left a cot, a pitcher of water, and a blanket folded with the precision of someone who knew sleep would not come easily. She stands with her back to me, one hand braced against the shelf, her shoulders tight with exhaustion.

I close the door.

“You should rest,” I say.

“I know.”

“You will not.”

She turns, and the weight in her eyes is worse than anger. “I cannot stop thinking about the cylinder. When all hands answer, open. What if we answered wrong? What if Helix finds a way to claim the registry before we can open it?”

I cross to her slowly. “Then we find a way to open it first.”

“Rethan—”

“We will.”

I reach for her, and she comes into my arms as if she has been waiting for permission to fall. Her forehead presses against my chest, and I feel the tremor that runs through her, the tension she has held for too long.

“I am so tired,” she whispers.

“I know.”

“I am afraid.”

“So am I.”

She pulls back to look at me. “You do not sound afraid.”

“Fear does not require volume to exist.”

Lucy’s hand finds my chest, just above my heart. “I can feel it. Through the bond. You are scared too.”

I cover her hand with mine. “I am afraid of losing you to a tribunal decision, a legal trick, or the weight of this fight. I am not afraid of admitting it.”

Her eyes fill. “Rethan.”

“I choose you,” I say. “Before the hearing. After it. If Helix wins. If it does not. I choose you.”

She fists a hand in my tunic and pulls me down.

The kiss is not gentle. It is the kiss of a woman holding everything together who needs one moment to let go. I meet her with matching urgency, my hands finding her waist, pulling her closer.

“Lock the door,” she says against my mouth.

I do not argue.

The latch turns, and I am back before she can miss me. Lucy has already pushed the blanket aside and perched on the cot’s edge, reaching for me.