Chapter 11 Nova
NOVA
The restricted deck hums quiet as a prayer.
No boots, no chatter, no holo displays barking orders.
Just the low thrum of station power coursing through the walls and the wide-eyed stare of stars bleeding through the observation glass like they’re trying to tell secrets only the broken-hearted can hear.
I shouldn’t be here.
I should be asleep. Or reviewing reports. Or doing anything else that isn’t indulging this reckless, ridiculous ache crawling up my spine every time I think about Kaz. Which lately, is always.
The door sighs shut behind me, and there he is—leaned forward on the railing like he was carved into it. Elbows braced, spine curved, gaze lost to the dark. He doesn’t turn at first. Just lifts his head slightly, like he knew it was me from the moment the door hissed.
“Didn’t think you’d come,” he says, voice low and amused, like this whole damn mess is some kind of joke he’s still not done telling.
“I almost didn’t,” I answer, stepping in, arms crossed too tight. “This isn’t smart.”
“Smart’s overrated.”
“I’m serious, Kaz.”
He turns. Blue eyes catching starlight, mouth tugged into something not quite a smile.
“So am I.”
Gods, he looks… calm. But not in the lazy, cocky way he usually does. This is quieter. Calmer. Like he’s been flying full burn for weeks and finally let the engines cool.
I hate how my pulse picks up.
I walk to the far end of the railing, putting a good ten feet of star-splashed metal between us. I grip it, knuckles blanching white, and stare out at the glittering vacuum.
We’re quiet a long moment.
Then I say it.
“We can’t keep doing this.”
Kaz doesn’t answer right away. Doesn’t scoff or joke. Just shifts his weight and leans back against the rail, head tilting toward me slightly.
“Doing what?”
“This.” I wave a hand between us like it’s obvious. “The flirting. The late-night meetings. The almosts.”
He shrugs, slow and lazy. “You showed up.”
“I know.”
“So maybe you want the almosts just as bad as I do.”
He doesn’t say it like a challenge. More like an observation. And somehow that makes it worse.
I exhale through my teeth, jaw tight. “That’s not the point.”
He steps a little closer, and I don’t move. Can’t. My boots feel bolted to the floor.
“So what is the point, Nova?” he asks, voice softer now. “Why’d you come?”
I look away, throat tightening. The stars blur for a second, and I blink fast. Damn it. Not here. Not with him.
“My father died in this war,” I say suddenly, surprising even myself. The words spill out sharp and sudden, like a snapped wire. “He flew a scout run into Coalition territory during the Siege of Epsilon Theta. Didn’t make it back. They didn’t even send a body. Just his tags. Burnt at the edges.”
Kaz is quiet. No snark. No comeback. Just that silence again, stretching out like the distance between galaxies.
“He always said… if you’re gonna fly, do it for something real. Something worth it. Not just medals. Not glory. Something that matters.”
Kaz steps beside me, slow, deliberate. Close enough I feel the heat of him but not enough to touch.
“You think I don’t fly for something?”
I glance at him. “You fly like you’re trying to outrun yourself.”
He winces. Not visibly, but it’s there—in the way his mouth tightens, the way his fingers flex once against the rail.
“You’re not wrong,” he says quietly. “I used to fly because I liked winning. Because it made me feel like I mattered.”
“And now?”
“Now?” He shrugs again, but it’s heavier this time. “Now I fly because I don’t know how to stop.”
Something cracks in me. Not breaks—just… shifts. Like a plate beneath the surface finally slipping into place.
“What about Swan?” I ask, voice nearly a whisper. “He’s your wingman. He believes in you. He’s betting his life on your instincts.”
Kaz smiles, but it’s bitter. “Swan’s the only one who sees the worst in me and sticks around anyway. He thinks I’m capable of more than being an ass in a cockpit.”
“Maybe you are.”
He looks at me then—really looks. No smirk. No walls.
“I don’t want to be just good in the sky, Nova. I want to be good for something. For someone.”
My heart stutters. It’s too much. Too close.
“Don’t say things like that.”
“Why not?”
“Because I can’t afford to believe them.”
We fall quiet again. The stars outside shift slowly, the station’s gentle rotation turning the cosmos like a lazy wheel.
Then Kaz says, low and rough, “Vakutan tradition says… when a warrior falls in battle, those left behind sing their names into the night. So the stars remember them.”
My breath catches.
“I used to think that was dumb,” he goes on. “But after losing some people… now it just feels like the least we can do.”
I don’t realize I’m crying until a tear hits my collarbone.
Kaz doesn’t touch me. Doesn’t press.
He just brushes a strand of hair off my face, tucks it behind my ear. His fingers linger near my jaw, warm and reverent.
“Tell me to stop,” he whispers, “and I will.”
I should, but I don’t.
Instead, I lean forward—just an inch—and rest my forehead against his shoulder.
His breath hitches, and then he’s still. Not pulling me closer. Not pushing me away. Just… there.
Solid. Steady.
The silence wraps around us, heavy and intimate.
We stay like that for a long time. Not speaking. Not touching beyond that one quiet point of contact.
And maybe that’s the most dangerous part.
Because this doesn’t feel like lust or distraction or adrenaline.
It feels like something I don’t have a name for.
Eventually, I pull back.
Kaz doesn’t try to stop me.
I turn to go, but at the door, I glance over my shoulder.
He’s still there, watching me. Not possessive. Not smug.
Just… like I’m the only thing holding him to the deck.
And gods help me…
I don’t want to let go.