Chapter 32
GYON
The sun’s barely above the horizon when I rise.
My boots touch the rooftop tiles before the air warms. The city stretches in blush-pink light, wind towers hum faint in the distance, and I feel that old compulsion — sharpen the muscles, let blood flow, clear the noise.
My fist curls around the training bar. I draw a breath of steel-cold morning air, taste the tang of ozone, feel the early gravity settle in my bones.
But then I come down from the roof. I trade the fight for something softer. Domesticity. Ridiculous. Alien. Perfect.
A knock at the studio child care pod locks in my routine. I step inside and there she is—Pepper—her blonde curls bouncing, bright sneakers askew, the inducer humming under her jacket. She looks up. Gold-brown eyes. Slight snarl in her lip when she’s making mischief.
“Hey, Gyon,” she chirps. “Ready for breakfast?”
I grin. “Born ready.”
I hoist her onto my shoulders. The pod smells of wiped walls, warm milk, the whine of overlooked commercials on half-dead screens. The other kids stare. I feel that glare. I’m not one of them. I carry Pepper, high, she kicks the air, giggles.
“Kick the orbit!” she shouts.
I raise my arm. “Take off!” I throw an imaginary punch upward—she squeals.
The caregivers grumble. I ignore. I lift her down and crouch. “What do you want for shoes today? Space boots or sneaky-stealth sneakers?”
She ponders. “Space boots!”
We walk out to the costume car, the smell of hot rubber on the lot, engine whine, hovercar hiss. I open the door. She hops in. “Mommy’s set! She’ll be proud.”
I nod. “Let’s make her proud.”
Later, lunchtime on set. The hum of air-conditioning, bleeps of monitors, the scent of reheated pasta. Liora’s across the table, bright light haloing her hair. I pick at a sandwich. She nudges my plate. “You want jam?”
I roll my eyes. “Jam? You’re spoiling her.”
She shrugs. “You are.”
Pepper slides into the seat beside me. “Daddy,” she says, pointing at the jam, “give me the squirty.”
I lean over. “Here you go, Space-Pirate Commander.” I hand it. She squirts it on bread, shoots a smudge at me.
I pretend to chase her. She squeals. Crew members glance. Phones rise. I don’t care. The barrier between us is thinning. The hesitation in her eyes is fading.
Meanwhile, Liora watches—softening. I sense it. I don’t push. I let her keep the wall for now. Everything else feels right.
That night we eat together. Not with the stunt team. Not with fake-blood spills and props nearby. Just us. A corner booth in a diner near the studio. The smell: fry-oil, sugar donuts, the low buzz of Tuesday-night hangers-on. Pepper eats pancakes, syrup drip on her chin. I lap milk like a kid.
Liora takes my hand across the table. Her fingers are warm. I taste vanilla on her breath. I look into her eyes: chocolate-brown, tired, hopeful. The barrier flares, then dims. She lets me in a little more.
“You were good today,” she says quietly.
I grin. “Thanks.”
She swallows. “She adores you.”
“She’s got good taste.”
There’s laughter—her genuine laugh. I lean back and enjoy the sound.
Pepper hogs pancakes. I wipe syrup from her cheek. I smell maple, feel her cheek soft, hear her giggle.
After dinner, I drop them off at the apartment. I carry Pepper to bed. The apartment smells of jam, microwave woodchip dinner, faint promise of clean sheets. I set her down, she hugs me, then runs off with a toy spaceship.
I suddenly find myself beside Liora’s door. She opens it, tired eyes, costume half-off. She hugs me. I slip in.
“I’m not leaving,” I whisper.
She nods. “Thank you.”
We sit on the couch. I pull a worn throw over us. The TV screen glows old-world: a black-and-white flicker of an Earth war film. The smell of popcorn and stale soda lingers. I press my head against her shoulder.
She kisses my temple—soft, slow. Not hunger. Not desperation. Rooted. Real.
I whisper, “Home.”
Dreams come easy when love bleeds into everyday. I sleep the first night in years without training fight-scenes flashing behind my lids. Instead I dream of a little girl climbing battlements, screaming in delight, and of a woman with soft lips, calling me yes.
Morning light smells like laundry and breakfast promises.
And as I rise, the world feels different. Not perfect. Not over. But good.
Because I’ve found something worth guarding.
I move to Pepper’s bedroom, watch her in slumber as my chest tightens.
Pepper sleeps like she fights—full-tilt, reckless, utterly unbothered by the universe.
I stand in the doorway of Liora’s tiny apartment, one hand braced on the frame, watching the little creature burrow under her blanket like she’s tunneling through a trench system only she can see.
Her soft breaths fill the room, a faint squeak at the end of each exhale. She smells like shampoo—berries, something artificial and too sweet—but underneath is the truth: my bloodline, faint but steady. Silver-thread scent, the kind only a Reaper nose can pick apart from the rest of the world.
I crouch beside her tiny bed, my knees brushing discarded stuffed animals, a broken holo-projector, and a pair of shoes she insisted on wearing backwards earlier. Her tiny brow twitches. Her nose scrunches.
I whisper, “What are you fighting in there, little warrior?”
She mumbles something that sounds like “pancakes.” I almost laugh. Almost.
My claws soften back into my fingers. I brush a stray curl behind her ear. The hum of her inducer vibrates against my fingertip—barely audible, barely detectable, but still there. Still masking her. Still keeping her safe.
It shouldn’t have to.
I study her face. She has Liora’s jawline. My cheekbones. Her tiny hands curl into fists when she dreams. Reaper reflex. Human softness. Perfect blend. My chest tightens and expands at the same time.
“Mine,” I breathe, barely a whisper.
I don’t say it louder. Not yet. Not while Liora stands just down the hall, wrestling with her own fear, her own secrets. I could force the truth out of her. I could demand answers. I could pin her against the wall, bare my teeth, and tell her I already know.
But I want her to tell me because she trusts me. Not because she’s cornered.
That is… new. For me.
I sit on the floor beside Pepper’s bed. The carpet is rough against my palms, the faint scent of cleaning chemicals lingering. Liora must’ve scrubbed earlier—when she’s anxious, she fights dust like it’s an enemy combatant.
Pepper rolls over. Her hand flops onto my thigh.
“Gyon?” she murmurs, half asleep.
“I’m here.”
“You stay?”
“Yes.”
Her lips quirk in a dream-smile. She squeezes my leg, then drifts deeper.
My breath catches. Something cracks inside me—a break so gentle it almost feels like healing. I rest my hand atop her tiny fingers.
“You’re stronger than you know,” I whisper to her. “And I’ll make sure no one ever sees you as anything but a child.”
A floorboard creaks.
Liora.
I look up. She stands by the door, wrapped in a loose sweater, eyes soft and tired, one hand gripping the frame like she’s holding herself up with it. The faint citrus of her shampoo reaches me even from across the room. Her pulse, uneven. Her breath, unsteady.
She watches us. Not speaking. Not breathing for a moment.
“You… okay?” she whispers.
I nod. “She fell asleep fast.”
“She always does.” Liora leans her head against the wall. “She’s a storm all day and a puddle all night.”
I smirk. “That sounds like someone else I know.”
She stiffens, but not in anger. More like… guilt. Fear. Something she’s tried to control for three years and is running out of space to contain.
She looks away first.
“Thank you,” she murmurs. “For… being here.”
I rise. The floor shifts under my weight. “There’s nowhere else I would be.”
Her throat works, swallowing something she won’t name.
“She—she really likes you,” Liora says.
“And I like her.”
“I know.” Her voice is thin. “That’s… kind of the problem.”
I tilt my head. “Why?”
She shakes her head quickly. “Forget I said anything. I’m tired.”
This is the moment I could push. I feel it. The truth is right there, trembling behind her eyes. I could reach out and drag it into the open.
Instead, I step forward slowly.
“Liora.”
She lifts her chin. A challenge. A shield.
I lower my voice. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Her eyes flutter shut. A breath escapes her like she’s been holding it for days.
“Don’t say that unless you mean it,” she says.
“I mean everything I say to you.”
Silence stretches between us. Warm. Heavy. Charged.
She steps closer, her hand brushing my forearm. Her skin is warm—warmer than usual. Her scent spikes with nerves and longing, both tangled tight.
“Gyon…” she whispers.
I lean in, but not all the way. I don’t kiss her. I don’t pull her close.
I wait.
Her hand curls, gripping my shirt lightly. “I don’t deserve how patient you’re being.”
“That’s not your decision to make.”
She opens her eyes. Beautiful, scared, hopeful eyes.
I let her search my face. Let her see everything I’m not saying. Let her know, without a single spoken word, that she is not alone in any of this—not anymore.
After a long breath, she steps back just enough to put space between us. She tugs her sweater around her.
“We should… get some sleep,” she says quietly.
“If you sleep better knowing I’m near,” I murmur, “I will stay.”
Her breath stutters. “I do sleep better.”
I nod once. “Then I’ll stay.”
Her lips tremble into something like a smile before she turns away.
I return to Pepper’s bedside, sitting quietly, keeping vigil.
Liora disappears down the hall. Her soft footsteps fade into nighttime quiet. The apartment fills with warm air, hums, Pepper’s quiet breathing. I listen. I breathe with her.
I lower my hand to rest on the edge of her blanket.
One day soon, Liora will tell me. She’ll break open that last piece of herself and put Pepper’s truth in my hands. I’ll take it gently. Carefully.
Because love isn’t just claiming.
Love is waiting.
But not forever.
And not much longer.
I close my eyes, breathe Pepper’s scent, and whisper to the dark:
“Come on, Liora. I’m ready when you are.”