Chapter 50
NOVA
The explosion rattles the deckplates like a meteor hit just outside the base.
I’m already running.
Screams crackle over the comm lines, a dozen voices trying to report at once. I cut them all off and sprint through the corridor, dodging personnel and med bots that haven’t caught up to the chaos yet. The lights are flickering red, pulsing like a heartbeat through the metal hallways.
I know what that sound was.
It was a ship hitting the atmosphere wrong. It was too fast, too low, too hard. It was his ship.
“Kaz,” I whisper into the comm, even though I know it’s useless. “Kaz, please.”
The eastern hangar doors are already open when I barrel through. Smoke pours in through the breach. The air stinks of scorched metal and vaporized fuel. The kind of smell that clings to your clothes, your hair—your soul.
And there it is.
A crumpled, half-melted mass of what used to be a ship, still smoking in the clearing just beyond the perimeter. Rescue teams are fanned out in disarray, too shocked to get close.
I don’t stop to suit up.
I run barefoot across the scorched landing strip.
My lungs burn. My legs scream. I don’t care.
Kaz’s ship is a wreck. One of the wings is gone. The hull’s torn open like something clawed it midair. There’s a deep furrow in the earth behind it where he must’ve skidded—hard.
I scramble up the side and peer into the cockpit, heart in my throat.
He’s there.
Slumped.
Still.
But breathing.
His chest rises—shallow and uneven—but it rises.
My hands shake as I hit the emergency latch. The cockpit glass hisses, depressurizing, then slides back with a groan. The smell hits me instantly—burnt plastic, ozone, and blood. So much blood.
“Kaz,” I breathe, and the word comes out like a sob.
His eyes flutter. One is swollen nearly shut. The other, glassy and unfocused.
He smiles.
Gods help me, he smiles.
“Told you… I’d make it,” he croaks.
“You magnificent, stupid idiot,” I choke out, reaching for him, cradling the side of his face even though he winces. “You absolute asshole. You promised.”
“I kept it,” he murmurs. “See? Not even dead.”
“Not yet.”
He coughs, and there’s blood. My heart seizes.
“Med evac now!” I scream to the responders, finally catching up. “Get him stabilized!”
They rush in, a swarm of white and silver uniforms, scanners and stretchers and equipment spilling around me.
I hold his hand the whole time.
I don’t let go.
Two hours later, I sit beside his med bed in a room dimly lit by the soft glow of Dar’s starscape lamp.
Kaz is patched up now—chest wrapped, left leg braced, half his body buried in sensor pads and auto-repair gel. But he’s alive. His vitals are steady.
He’s alive.
The words loop in my head like a mantra.
“Hey,” comes a small voice behind me.
I turn.
Dar stands in the doorway in his footie pajamas, hair sleep-tousled, clutching his stuffed dragon by the wing.
“I heard him crash,” he says, solemn and sharp in the way only kids can be. “Is he broken?”
I lift my arms without thinking, and he climbs into my lap.
“No, starlight,” I whisper into his hair. “Just bruised.”
He studies Kaz’s face, so quiet it aches. Then, carefully, he slides down and pads across the floor to the bed.
He climbs up like a mountaineer—slow, determined—and curls onto Kaz’s uninjured side. Little hands rest gently on Kaz’s chest.
“You flew far,” Dar says softly.
Kaz’s eyes blink open again. “Yeah,” he rasps. “Guess I did.”
“No more wormholes,” Dar declares.
Kaz grunts. “Deal, co-pilot.”
And that’s it.
No fireworks.
No speeches.
Just us.
Together.
The Alliance will tear down the wormhole project. Stark’s being sent offworld under high security—his smug face erased from every console like a bad dream. The base will shut down within the week, mothballed and buried under a hundred bureaucratic layers.
None of that matters now.
Kaz is here.
Dar is safe.
And the stars outside don’t feel like they’re waiting to devour me. They feel like home.