Chapter 33
KAZ
Ishouldn’t be here.
The neon flickers in time with the thump of bass leaking through the walls of the Daveros tavern, like the whole building’s breathing in sync with the ache in my chest. I should be reviewing launch telemetry.
Prepping for the next wormhole sim. Sleeping, even.
But instead, I’m standing outside the only half-lit bar this side of the blast zone, my hand hovering near the door like a goddamn teenager stalling on the front porch.
And then I see her.
Through the dusty window—Nova.
Sitting alone at the corner booth, back to the wall, one foot hooked around the leg of the table like she’s ready to bolt at any second. Same old habit. A habit I know because I’ve watched her do it a thousand times—on ships, at mess halls, under a sky too red to be safe.
Her hair’s up, messy like she gave up halfway. There’s a drink in her hand, untouched. She’s staring at nothing in particular. But there’s this tightness around her mouth I recognize too well.
She’s thinking.
Not the good kind.
The kind that leads to locked doors and solo missions.
I push the door open before I can talk myself out of it.
The place smells like ion oil, stale synth-beer, and someone’s cologne that never should’ve made it past customs. The crowd’s thin. A few engineers laughing too loud. A tech couple slow dancing off-beat to a jukebox ballad. No one notices me slip in.
She does.
Her eyes flick up before I’m halfway across the room. She clocks me, blinks once, then looks back down at her glass like I’m just another ghost. But she doesn’t get up. Doesn’t bolt.
So I keep walking.
“Didn’t take you for a regular,” I say, sliding into the booth across from her. My voice is casual, but I feel like I’ve just thrown myself into open fire.
“I’m not,” she replies, deadpan. “Place has terrible lighting and worse playlists.”
“But here you are.”
She lifts her glass but doesn’t drink. “Guess I’m making poor choices tonight.”
My mouth twitches.
“Mind if I make one too?”
She doesn’t answer.
But she doesn’t tell me to leave either.
So I signal the bartender for two of whatever they’re serving that won’t rot my liver in one go.
For a while, we don’t say much. Just sit there in the low buzz of recycled air and soft laughter and the kind of silence that’s louder than anything we could fill it with.
Then she speaks.
“I thought you had pre-flight at 0600.”
“I do.”
“And you’re out drinking with your co-instructor the night before?”
“I was hoping she’d talk me out of it.”
Nova snorts. “You’re not that easy to talk out of anything.”
“I am,” I say, “when she’s the one doing the talking.”
She glances up at that—just a flicker—and there’s a ghost of a smile tugging at the edge of her mouth. It lasts all of two seconds before she smothers it.
But I see it.
We sit like that, drinking slowly. Letting the tension stretch thin like a wire.
“You still paint?” she asks suddenly.
The question knocks the air right out of me.
I grip the glass tighter. “Haven’t touched a brush since…”
I don’t finish the sentence.
She doesn’t make me.
But she’s looking at me now, really looking.
“I always liked that one you did,” she says, voice softer. “The porch. The rain.”
My throat’s tight. I nod, once.
“I never forgot it,” I say.
Something in her eyes falters. Just for a heartbeat.
“Bet I could still beat you at darts,” she says, pivoting fast, tone light.
I raise a brow. “Bet you couldn’t.”
“Wanna test that?”
I’m already standing.
We walk over to the back wall where the board is mounted. I grab the darts. She rolls her shoulders like a boxer warming up.
She throws first. Bullseye.
Of course.
“You cheat,” I mutter.
She grins. “I practice.”
I throw. It’s decent. She throws again. Better.
We go round after round, and the room starts to feel smaller. Warmer. Her laugh starts to sound real. My shoulders loosen. The distance between us starts to crack.
Final throw.
She just misses the bull.
I step up. Take aim.
Land a perfect shot.
Barely.
She groans, dramatic. “Rigged.”
I bow, mock-formal. “Truth or dare?”
Her eyes narrow. “Seriously?”
“It’s tradition.”
“Which part of this feels like a high school party to you?”
“The part where I want to know what you’d say.”
She doesn’t answer. Doesn’t laugh. But she doesn’t walk away either.
The silence thickens between us.
“I’m not playing,” she says at last.
But her fingers drift along the rim of her glass like she’s remembering how.
I nod. “Okay.”
We’re quiet again.
Then she says, “You never asked why I left that day.”
“I figured you didn’t want me to.”
“I didn’t. But you should’ve asked anyway.”
My chest is tight.
I stare down at my drink.
“I almost did,” I say. “Every day. Then I figured you were done.”
“I was scared,” she says.
I look up.
She’s not smiling now.
“I knew if I told you everything... you’d follow me,” she continues. “And I couldn’t lose you too.”
Her voice is raw. Low.
And I swear the air around us stills.
We don’t move for a long moment.
Then I say, “I would’ve.”
“I know.”
The walk back to base is quiet.
We don’t talk.
We don’t touch.
But we’re close. Her shoulder brushes mine with every step. Her scent is this wild mix of citrus and old leather and something warm I forgot I knew how to miss.
And when we reach the shadow of the base entrance, where the lights dim just enough to blur the rules, I stop walking.
So does she.
I don’t think.
I just move.
And she doesn’t stop me.
Not right away.
Her lips are soft and familiar and fire all at once. Her fingers twitch against my jacket like she might hold on—or push away—and for a second, we’re both falling, untethered, nineteen again and desperate and stupid with hope.
Then she breaks the kiss.
Just barely.
Her forehead rests against mine.
Her breath’s shaky.
“We can’t,” she whispers.
But she doesn’t walk away.
And neither do I.