Chapter 12 #2
The question hangs in the recycled air between us, suspended like a challenge I'm not prepared to meet. Unanswerable and terrifying in its implications, it settles into the space we occupy with the weight of something I've been trying desperately not to examine too closely.
I feel the words lodge somewhere in my throat, refusing to form a coherent response.
Because I'm not certain. Not anymore. Not since she started drinking terrible coffee with me in the mornings, debating soil composition with the fierce intelligence that sets my blood on fire.
Not since she laughed at my dry observations and the sound stopped my heart.
Not since she leaned close over a data-pad and I felt the gravitational pull of wanting someone so badly it rewrites basic physics.
"It doesn't matter what I'm certain of," I finally say. "The deal stands. Six months. Then she chooses, freely, without pressure from me or the population or anyone else."
"And if she chooses to leave?"
The possibility opens like a chasm in my chest. Cold vacuum where warmth has been building despite every attempt to prevent it.
I imagine this place without her presence, without her light.
Imagine going back to the grey half-life I lived before she arrived, before I knew what it felt like to want someone not just physically but in every way that matters.
"Then I keep my word." The words cost more than they should. "I give her everything I promised and let her go."
"You're a better man than most give you credit for." Thanatos claps a hand on my shoulder, heavy with the weight of friendship and understanding. "Or possibly a fool. I haven't decided which."
"Both, probably." I roll my shoulders, trying to shed the tension that's locked every muscle tight. "I'm going to shower. Then check the oxygen scrubber efficiency reports. Then—"
"Then talk to her." Not a suggestion. A command, delivered with the same tone he uses for tactical briefings. "Before you destroy the entire training facility working through feelings you could resolve with one honest conversation."
He leaves before I can argue. Smart of him. Leaves me standing in the wreckage of my own making, surrounded by the shattered remains of combat droids and the uncomfortable truth that he's right.
I need to talk to her. Not about crop yields or pH levels or any of the safe topics we've hidden behind. About what happened in the lab. About the moment when everything shifted and I wanted so badly to close that final distance that I fled like a coward instead.
About what happens when the six months are up and she has to choose.
The shower does nothing to calm my thoughts. Hot water and soap remove the blood and hydraulic fluid, but they can't wash away the bone-deep certainty that I'm standing on the edge of something irreversible. That whatever I say to her tonight will change everything, for better or worse.
I dress in clean clothes. Black, as always. Functional. I stare at my reflection in the polished metal of the locker door, at the scars and the void-dark eyes and the face that makes children flinch. Try to imagine what she sees when she looks at me.
Try to convince myself that whatever it is, it's enough.
The walk to her quarters takes three minutes. I spend every second of it rehearsing words that sound hollow even in my head. I'm sorry I ran. I'm not sorry I want you. I need to know what you're thinking. I'm terrified of what you're thinking.
None of it sounds right. None of it captures the magnitude of what's building in my chest, this growing thing I don't have vocabulary for.
I round the final corner, my footsteps echoing in the empty corridor with a rhythm that matches my thundering pulse.
The overhead lights cast harsh shadows along the walls, making the passageway feel narrower than it is, more confining.
My hands are clenched at my sides, and I force myself to breathe evenly, to maintain some semblance of control over the chaos churning inside me.
Her door comes into view at the end of the corridor.
It's open.
My entire body goes cold. Not just unlocked, that would be strange enough, given the late hour and the privacy she's claimed so fiercely since arriving on this forsaken station.
Not just unlocked. Physically open, the panel slid back to reveal darkness beyond. And not open in the casual way of someone stepping out for a moment. Open in the wrong way. The forced way.
The edges of the door panel are warped. Scored with marks that suggest prying tools, leverage, violence.
My heart stops. Then restarts with a violence that sends adrenaline flooding through my system, every combat instinct screaming online at once.
I'm moving before conscious thought catches up. Cross the distance in three strides. Slam my palm against the wall panel to trigger the interior lights.
The room is empty.
Completely, utterly empty in a way that makes the silence ring in my ears like a physical blow.
Her bed is made with that precise military efficiency she never quite shook from whatever life she led before, corners tucked, blanket smooth, pillow centred exactly.
Her few possessions are still scattered where she left them, creating the illusion of occupancy that makes their owner's absence all the more jarring.
Data-pad on the desk, its screen dark but still blinking with a standby notification light.
Jacket draped over the back of the chair, the worn leather one she seems to favour despite the station's climate controls making outerwear unnecessary.
A half-empty water container on the nightstand.
A hair tie coiled beside it like a discarded promise.
Everything exactly as it should be, precisely where it belongs, creating a tableau of normal life interrupted.
Everything except for the one thing that matters.
She's gone.