Chapter 39
KAZ
Iavoid her.
Every corridor, every meeting, every glance that tries to pull me in—I sidestep it like it burns. Because it does. Her voice shows up in my inbox, soft apologies wrapped in hard silences. She doesn’t ask for forgiveness outright, and maybe that’s what cuts the worst.
She knows she doesn’t deserve it.
So I stop opening the messages. Stop looking her way during briefings. I bury myself in flight drills, simulation recalibrations, half-busted mechs. Anything to keep my hands busy and my mind from replaying every damn second of the last few weeks on loop.
But I can’t avoid him.
Dar.
He sees me from across the courtyard, the morning sun catching his curls like a crown of fire.
“Flyboy!”
His voice splits through the base noise like a beacon. Pure joy. No hesitation.
He runs.
I don’t move.
I should.
I should turn and walk the other way. Reinforce the wall I spent the last three days building brick by bitter brick.
But I don’t.
I kneel.
And when he barrels into me, arms flung wide, I catch him without thinking.
He clings like he’s afraid I’ll vanish.
I don’t say a word.
Not a damn thing.
I just hold him.
His little hands fist in my jacket. He smells like ozone and juice and sleep. There’s peanut butter on the cuff of his sleeve. He’s real. Not a maybe. Not a theory. Flesh and blood. Mine.
He pulls back, eyes wide. “You mad at Mommy?”
I blink. Swallow hard.
“No, buddy,” I rasp. “Not mad.”
“Then why you sad?”
I can’t answer that. Not without unraveling right there in the courtyard.
So I smile. It feels crooked.
“Just tired,” I say.
He accepts it.
Of course he does.
Kids believe in simple truths.
Later, I find Verzius at the launch pad, watching a fresh recruit fail a landing sim with all the grace of a falling trashcan.
“Clean kill,” he mutters.
I step up beside him. Don’t look over. Just stand there, arms crossed, shoulders tight.
“Was I really that easy to forget?”
Verzius doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pretend he doesn’t know what I mean.
“She never forgot,” he says. “She just never forgave herself.”
I stay quiet.
The silence between us is thick. Not awkward. Just... heavy.
“You know, I told her,” he adds. “To tell you. Weeks ago.”
“Why didn’t she?”
He glances at me. “Because she’s human. And scared. And in love with you in a way that hurts.”
“That’s not a good enough reason.”
“No,” Verzius says, folding his arms. “But it’s the truth.”
That night, the base hums low with power cycling down for third shift. Shadows stretch long through the halls, and even the steel feels softer underfoot. I move quiet through the passages, ducking security cams I already know the blind spots for. Old habits.
The observation platform’s empty.
Cold wind licks at my jacket as I step out under the stars.
And there they are—bright, brutal, indifferent. The universe unblinking above me.
I reach into my pocket and pull out Dar’s toy starship.
Still warm from being next to me all day. The nose is cracked. One wing’s scuffed like it’s survived more battles than a flagship.
I hold it in both hands, like it might give me answers.
Or courage.
I look up at the sky.
I used to think stars held promises.
Now I know better.
They hold silence.
I sit down hard on the bench, elbows on my knees, head hanging low.
The toy rolls in my palms.
“I didn’t ask for this,” I whisper to no one.
I didn’t ask to be lied to. To be kept away. To miss five years of firsts.
First steps.
First words.
First everything.
But I got this.
And I don’t know what to do with it.
The toy creaks faintly in the breeze. I close my hand around it.
Maybe the truth isn’t in what I lost.
Maybe it's what I still have.
And the question hanging in the air like a breath held too long is: am I brave enough to forgive her before it’s too late?