Chapter 7
LUNA
The café's tucked behind what used to be a maintenance bay. Now it’s got a counter, three dented metal tables, and a tattered shade canopy that whines when the breeze catches it just right.
The whole place smells like grease and roasted synthbean—sharp, oily, oddly comforting.
I used to come here during supply runs, back when I still believed in fresh starts.
I shouldn’t be here now.
Should’ve deleted his offer the second he made it. Should’ve turned the other way, held Solie tighter, told myself the past was buried and I meant to keep it that way.
But I came.
And I hate that I don’t even know why.
Kraj is already sitting when I walk up. Back against the wall, eyes scanning every movement like he’s still on patrol. His scales catch the orange sunlight, throwing off dull red glints like hot coals under ash. His coffee—black, probably bitter as sin—sits untouched.
He stands when he sees me. That old-fashioned gesture I never expected from a man who once killed with nothing but a glance.
“Luna,” he says.
I keep my arms crossed, heart battering my ribs. “Don’t make me regret this.”
His mouth curls, not into a smile exactly. Something smaller. Sadder.
“You won’t,” he says, and gestures to the seat across from him.
I don’t sit right away. Let him stew a bit. Make him wonder if I’ll bolt.
But I do. Eventually.
Because I need this.
I need to know.
The first few minutes are stiff. I don’t touch the synthbean he orders for me, even though the warmth of the cup seeps into my fingers, grounding me. He doesn’t force the conversation. Doesn’t fill the silence with lies or platitudes.
That’s almost worse.
“So,” I finally say, watching a cleaner-bot scuttle past the edge of the platform. “You’re alive.”
“I am,” he says. “Not by choice some days.”
I huff. “Not much of a sales pitch.”
He looks down at his claws, turning the tips slowly, like he’s trying to figure out what they’re good for if not breaking things.
“I wanted to say I’m sorry.”
I flinch. “For what part, exactly? For lying? For vanishing? For making me think you cared?”
He nods, slow. “Yes.”
My jaw tightens. “That’s not an answer.”
His eyes flick up. Gold, like Solie’s. Only now do I realize how much I’ve been avoiding looking directly at them. It’s like staring into fire—you know it’ll hurt eventually, but gods, it’s mesmerizing.
“I’m sorry for using you,” he says. “For the way I left. For not being strong enough to make my own choices back then.”
I shake my head, scoffing. “You think an apology fixes it? You tore my life apart.”
“I know.”
His voice is rougher now, choked. “I was supposed to kill you.”
The world stops.
“What?” I whisper.
“I was supposed to use you. Then silence you. Clean. Efficient. No ties left behind.”
There’s a ringing in my ears, like the air just got sucked out of the entire moon.
“But I couldn’t,” he goes on. “Couldn’t lay a claw on you. Couldn’t even bring myself to send the signal that marked you for elimination.”
I stare at him, throat tight.
“I disobeyed,” he says simply. “They found out. That’s why I disappeared. That’s why I got dumped on the front lines.”
I sit back, heart hammering. “You… you spared me?”
He nods once.
“That doesn’t make it better,” I murmur, fingers curling around the warm cup now, needing something to anchor me. “You still used me.”
“I know. I don’t expect forgiveness. I just… needed you to know the truth.”
I look away, blinking hard. “Why now?”
He shrugs. “It’s been three years. And when I saw you again…”
His voice trails off.
Silence again. Thick. Electric.
“So what now?” I ask. “You want a second chance?”
He shakes his head. “I want… I don’t know. A real moment. No lies. No mission. Just… us.”
Us.
Gods, that word still does things to me.
“I’m not who I was,” I say, voice cracking. “I’ve got responsibilities. A kid. A life.”
“I know.”
“And you’re still dangerous. You’re still involved in whatever shitstorm the Coalition’s cooking up out here.”
He doesn’t deny it.
“I’m not asking for anything,” he says. “Not today. I just wanted to see you. Talk to you like I should’ve, back then.”
I laugh—dry, sharp. “You think this is what you should’ve done back then?”
He looks down, shame clear in the slump of his shoulders.
Gods help me, I soften.
Because he’s not faking it.
I know what his lies look like—slick, cold, precise.
This… this is real.
“You were always good at looking like you gave a damn,” I say.
“I did.”
“Then why didn’t you say goodbye?”
He exhales through his nose, slow. “Because if I’d said goodbye, I wouldn’t have left. And if I didn’t leave, you’d be dead.”
We sit in that silence a long time.
The synthbean’s cold by the time I sip it.
Somehow, we end up talking for over an hour. Then another.
We don’t speak of Solie. Not directly.
He asks about work, and I tell him half-truths. He asks if I’m okay, and I say yes, even though I’m not.
He laughs at one point—soft, surprised—when I tell him about the time I almost lost a shipping drone to a flock of glasshawks.
“I remember those damn things,” he mutters. “Had to swat a whole nest out of my barracks once. They went for the heat panels.”
“They went for the emergency signal light,” I say, smirking. “That drone circled for three hours, panicking.”
He chuckles, and it’s a deep sound that stirs something old and buried in my chest.
I smile.
Damn him, I smile.
By the time we part ways, the sun’s low. The sky’s copper and lavender, dust curling in lazy spirals along the path.
He walks me to the tram station. Doesn’t try to touch me. Doesn’t press.
Just stands there, quiet.
“Thank you,” he says.
“For what?”
“For not throwing your coffee in my face.”
I snort. “I thought about it.”
“Next time.”
“There’s a next time?”
He hesitates.
“Maybe.”
I get on the tram before I change my mind.
As the doors hiss shut, I catch his expression through the glass—soft, open, aching.
He watches until I’m gone.
That night, I don’t sleep.
Not because of nightmares.
Because I can still feel the echo of his voice, low and gruff, saying my name like it still matters.
And Precursors help me, I want it to.
I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.
One minute I’m running manifests with half a brain cell and my nerves on edge, the next I’m walking through Wildwood’s main plaza with the man who once made me believe the stars might actually give a damn.
The plaza isn’t much. Some vendors, the static hum of solar lamps strung overhead like cheap constellations, the bite of peppered meat sizzling from the food cart near the statue of some long-dead Combine engineer.
There’s music playing—one of those old synth tracks on loop that’s supposed to feel nostalgic but mostly just makes the air feel heavier.
Kraj walks beside me, not too close, not pushing. Just there.
His presence alone makes the air different—charged. Like static before a storm.
I trip on a raised cobble stone. It's dumb, an uneven sliver of pavement, nothing special. But my foot catches, and I lurch forward with a sharp curse.
Before I can fall flat on my face, his arm catches me.
“Careful,” he murmurs.
His hand lands warm and solid between my shoulder blades. His fingers span nearly the whole width of my back, pressing through the worn fabric of my jacket like a live current. I freeze. Not from fear.
From something else entirely.
Slowly, I straighten, his touch lingering longer than necessary. I turn my head, and our eyes lock.
Gods.
His pupils dilate, those golden irises flaring brighter in the shifting plaza lights. He smells like metal and dust and something underneath—something wild and musky and his. I catch my breath too late.
He leans down, slow, giving me every chance to stop him.
I don’t.
The kiss is cautious at first, like we’re checking to make sure the other is real. His mouth is warm, hesitant. His claws stay at his sides, not grabbing, not demanding. Just waiting. Letting me come to him.
I do.
Because I can’t not.
Because his kiss tastes like regret and longing, and it’s been so long since anyone touched me like they meant it. Like they remembered.
My lips part and his breath hitches, and that’s all it takes. The kiss deepens, hungry now, starved. My fingers slide into the lapel of his jacket, tugging him closer. He groans—low, rough, guttural—and I feel it vibrate in my ribs.
Time unravels.
Three years vanish.
We’re back on a crowded transport ship, tucked into an unused cargo bay. Back in that narrow hallway by my old quarters, when he’d trapped me with nothing but a look. Back to heat and fingertips and laughter between whispered plans.
I pull away, breath ragged. My heart’s trying to climb through my throat.
“This was a mistake,” I whisper.
His hand’s still on my back. His forehead touches mine. “Is it?”
Gods, I want to say yes. Want to run, hide, retreat behind my walls and remind myself that he used me. That I built this life without him. That I don’t need this.
But instead, when he leans in again, I let him kiss me.
And this time, I don’t pretend it doesn’t burn.
We don’t talk on the walk back. The silence stretches, not awkward but heavy, like the ground knows something we don’t. When we reach my building, I pause outside the door. The code pad blinks blue. I hesitate.
“You coming in?” I ask, barely above a whisper.
He looks at me like he’s afraid to breathe.
“If you want me to.”
I type the code.
The door hisses open.
Solie’s with Grinna for the night. I told her I needed some quiet, some time to think. Gods help me, I didn’t think it’d lead to this.
But here we are.
Inside, I don’t turn on the lights. Moonlight filters through the blinds, casting slatted silver bars across the floor.
Kraj steps in behind me, careful, like he’s entering a shrine.
He looks around, noting the layout, the little touches I added to make the place feel less like exile and more like a home.
I take his jacket before I can second-guess myself. Hang it on the hook.
We stand in the living room like ghosts.
“I can go,” he says.
“No,” I say too quickly. “Stay.”
He watches me. His eyes do that softening thing again, the one that always undid me back then. That still undoes me now.
“You sure?”
“I invited you in.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” I confess, stepping closer. “But I haven’t stopped thinking about you since yesterday. Since I saw your face at that window. And it pisses me off.”
He gives a short, breathy laugh. “Same.”
Then I kiss him again.
And this time, there’s no hesitation. No caution.
Only fire.
It’s not rushed.
He touches me like I’m fragile, even though we both know I’m not.
His hands are slow, reverent. My shirt slips over my head, and he cups the back of my neck like he’s trying to memorize the shape of my spine.
His mouth finds the curve of my shoulder, then the hollow of my throat, and I arch into him, gasping.
He whispers my name like a prayer, like an apology.
I pull him toward the bedroom.
The bed’s small—narrow and creaky—but it doesn’t matter.
We’re all limbs and heat, mouths reacquainting themselves with old territory.
His body still fits against mine like a second skin, hot and coiled and powerful.
His claws rake down the outside of my thighs, careful not to break skin.
I wrap my legs around his waist, pull him in closer.
When we move together, it’s not just sex.
It’s something older.
Something deeper.
I cry out into his shoulder. He groans into my ear.
We don’t speak.
We don’t have to.
After, we lie tangled in the sheets, my head on his chest, his arm around my waist. The room’s warm, but I don’t pull away. His skin’s hot, textured like river stone, but I find comfort in it. In him.
“I missed this,” he murmurs.
“Don’t make it more than it is,” I say, eyes closed.
“What is it, then?”
I don’t answer.
Because I don’t know.
Eventually, he drifts off. I feel his breathing slow, hear that deep, faint rumble he makes when he’s at peace. I stay awake, watching the moonlight crawl across the floor. My fingers trace the faint scars on his chest—old wounds from a war that never really ends.
I don’t know what tomorrow brings.
But tonight…
Tonight, I let myself have this.