38. Sophie
SOPHIE
T he council chamber is finally quiet.
Not empty — quiet.
The kind of quiet that only happens after hours of argument, ink, recalibration metrics, and stubborn people refusing to give up on each other.
The long central table is still scattered with slates displaying irrigation models and trade allocations, their blue light casting a faint glow against stone walls that no longer feel like they’re listening for dissent.
I sit at the center of it with my boots kicked off under the chair, one knee drawn up, reviewing the final rotational schedule for regional oversight.
The hum of the distributed energy grid thrums low through the foundation beneath my feet — steady, balanced, alive. It doesn’t spike anymore. It breathes.
I exhale slowly.
For the first time since I landed here, I’m not bracing for collapse.
The door behind me clicks open.
I don’t look up.
“You’re both late,” I say.
“Council dissolved two hours ago,” Jax replies, voice warm with something almost like amusement. “You’re the only one still in session.”
I finally glance over my shoulder.
They both look tired.
Not battlefield tired.
Worked tired.
Jax’s sleeves are rolled to his elbows, dust still clinging faintly to the fabric from Sweetwater fields. Ragon’s coat hangs open at the collar, ink smudged along his fingers where he clearly rewrote three different clauses instead of delegating.
“You could’ve left the records for morning,” Ragon says.
“I could’ve,” I reply, turning back to the projection. “But then I’d lie awake thinking about clause seven’s wording.”
Jax snorts softly. “You mean the water arbitration clause?”
“Yes.”
He steps behind me, hands settling lightly on the back of my chair. “You don’t trust them?”
“I trust them to argue,” I say. “I want to make sure the framework survives it.”
Ragon walks around the table slowly, studying the floating projections.
“You integrated your father’s model cleanly,” he says quietly. “The load distribution metrics are stabilizing faster than predicted.”
I swallow.
“Yeah.”
Neither of them push that further.
Jax’s fingers brush my shoulder — not possessive, just present. “You did good today.”
I lean back slightly into the touch before I can stop myself.
“We did,” I correct.
Ragon pulls a chair close and sits facing me, long legs stretched slightly beneath the table.
“Former warlords arguing over grain quotas,” he murmurs. “If you’d told me that six months ago, I would’ve assumed you were delirious.”
“I was delirious six months ago,” I say lightly.
Jax’s hand slides from my shoulder down my arm, thumb tracing the inside of my wrist where my pulse beats steady and strong.
“You’re not anymore,” he says.
Something shifts in the room.
It’s subtle.
Not tension.
Recognition.
The council is formed. The energy field is stable. The rebellion is administration now.
And for once, we’re not racing toward the next emergency.
I close the projection with a flick of my fingers, letting the chamber dim into lamplight and shadow.
“So,” I say softly, glancing between them. “Now what?”
Ragon’s gaze holds mine. “Now we decide what this looks like publicly.”
Jax moves around the chair and sits on the edge of the table beside me, close enough that his thigh brushes mine.
“People are already talking,” he says. “They’ve seen us.”
“I’m not hiding,” I reply.
“Good,” Ragon says immediately.
I stand, stepping between them, and let my hands rest loosely at my sides.
“I won’t be managed,” I say plainly. “Not politically. Not personally.”
Jax’s mouth curves faintly. “Wouldn’t try.”
Ragon tilts his head. “I enjoy breathing.”
I roll my eyes, but warmth spreads through me anyway.
“I love you,” I say.
Not dramatic. Not hushed. Just true.
Jax doesn’t hesitate. “I know.”
Ragon smiles softly. “And we love you.”
“And each other?” I ask, not letting it pass.
Jax glances at Ragon.
Ragon meets his gaze steadily.
“We stand aligned,” Ragon says.
“That’s not what I asked.”
Jax exhales through his nose and shakes his head slightly, amused.
“No rivalry,” he says. “No ownership.”
Ragon nods once. “No hierarchy.”
I step closer, sliding my hands up Jax’s chest first, feeling the solid warmth beneath fabric, then turning and pressing my palm against Ragon’s sternum.
“This isn’t a secret,” I say quietly. “Not to them. Not to us.”
Jax’s hand settles at my waist, thumb brushing just beneath my ribs.
“You sure you want the whole citadel gossiping?” he murmurs.
“I already reorganized their government,” I reply. “They can handle this.”
Ragon laughs softly, then steps closer behind me, his body warm against my back.
“You’re exhausted,” he says into my hair.
“I am,” I admit.
“And you’re steady,” Jax adds.
“Yes.”
His fingers tilt my chin gently upward, and he kisses me.
Slow.
Not urgent.
The kind of kiss that says we’re not afraid of being seen.
I taste faint mint and dust and something unmistakably him. My hands slide into his hair, and when I pull back slightly, Ragon’s mouth is at the curve of my neck, warm and deliberate.
“You feel that?” Ragon murmurs.
“What?” I whisper.
“No tension.”
He’s right.
There’s no sharp edge. No rivalry in the air. No claim being staked.
Jax’s hand slides lower along my spine, grounding and firm. “We’re not fighting for space anymore,” he says softly.
“No,” I breathe.
Ragon turns me gently so I face them both, lamplight catching the planes of their faces.
“Tell us,” he says quietly.
“I’m not leaving,” I say.
Silence.
“I’m not looking for a way off-world,” I continue. “This is home.”
Jax’s hand tightens slightly at my waist.
“You sure?” he asks.
“Yes.”
Ragon studies my face carefully, searching for hesitation.
He doesn’t find it.
“Then we root here,” he says.
The word settles into me.
Root.
Like seedlings in wet soil.
Like distributed nodes across a lattice.
Jax leans in again, kissing me deeper this time, tongue sweeping against mine in a slow, confident rhythm that makes my breath hitch. Ragon’s hands slide over my hips, thumbs hooking lightly into the waistband of my trousers.
“You want this here?” Jax murmurs against my mouth.
“Yes.”
“Door’s unlocked,” Ragon adds quietly.
“Let them hear,” I whisper.
Jax huffs softly. “You’re trouble.”
I smile.
His hands move under my shirt, warm palms spreading across my ribs, thumbs grazing just beneath my breasts. Ragon’s mouth trails down my throat, kissing slowly, unhurried, like he has nothing to prove.
Every touch is deliberate.
Secure.
Jax’s fingers brush the underside of my breast and I arch slightly into it, breath catching.
“You’re shaking,” he murmurs.
“I’ve been steady all day,” I reply softly. “I don’t have to be now.”
Ragon’s hands slide around to my stomach, fingertips skimming upward slowly, reverently.
“Tell me if you want to stop,” Jax says.
“I don’t.”
They move with a quiet understanding that makes my chest ache in the best way.
No competition.
No urgency.
Just choice.
Jax lifts me onto the table, papers scattering softly beneath me, and steps between my knees while Ragon stands behind, his hands steady at my waist.
I pull Jax down to me, kissing him hard this time, letting the tension melt fully. Ragon’s fingers slide beneath the hem of my shirt, palms warm against bare skin, and I shiver.
“You’re home,” Jax murmurs against my lips.
“Yes.”
Ragon kisses the curve of my shoulder. “And we’re not leaving.”
“No.”
My hands move between them, touching without hesitation, grounding myself in their heat, their breath, their presence.
We move slowly.
Not because we’re unsure.
Because we have time.
When Jax’s mouth trails down my throat and Ragon’s fingers trace my ribs, I feel anchored instead of untethered. Desired without being consumed. Chosen without being claimed.
Outside the chamber, the distributed energy grid hums steady and balanced.
Inside, we do the same.
Later, when I’m curled between them on the wide council table, lamplight flickering low and their breathing slowing around me, I stare up at the high stone ceiling and feel something settle fully into place.
I am not a visitor here.
I am not passing through.
This planet does not feel alien anymore.
It feels lived in.
Built.
Ours.
And when Jax’s arm tightens around my waist and Ragon’s fingers lace through mine in sleep, I let my eyes close knowing I’m not dreaming of escape.
I’m dreaming of harvests.
Of councils.
Of mornings that don’t start with alarms.
Zhankar isn’t something I survived.
It’s home.