Chapter 8
ARIA
Something’s different this time.
Not just in the way the Meld clicks into place—clean, seamless, like slipping on gloves that were made for your fingers—but in the way I feel when it happens.
Warm.
Steady.
Safe, and yet... exposed.
I’m not used to this part. The letting go.
I always thought opening my mind to someone would feel like drowning—like watching my thoughts unravel while someone else picks through them, judging, mocking, maybe even weaponizing what they find.
But Naull doesn’t do that.
He doesn’t barge in, doesn’t pull or prod or press.
He just... lets me be.
And in that stillness, I find him waiting.
Not charging ahead. Not standing over me.
Just beside me.
“Feels good,” I murmur, surprised by how true it is.
“Yeah,” his voice rumbles beside me, lower now through the Meld than even his real-world growl. “Like finally turning on the damn lights.”
Whiplash thrums under our skin. Every system responds like we’ve been piloting together for years instead of days.
The mech doesn’t just move—it flows. Every movement, every input, comes from both of us at once.
It doesn’t feel like I’m sharing control.
It feels like I’ve found the part of me I didn’t know was missing.
“I didn’t know it could feel like this,” I whisper.
He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t need to.
But I feel it in the echo of his presence—the surprise, the wonder, the fragile hope.
I lean into the Meld further, stretching my thoughts toward him—not just logic and calculations and strategy, but memories. A flicker of a sunset over Baja. The smell of oil on my grandmother’s workbench. The hollow ache of the first time I buried a friend.
He lets them in. Doesn’t recoil. Doesn’t try to fix or soothe or smooth them over.
Just… accepts.
And then he gives me his.
A battlefield soaked in green light. The crunch of sand beneath his boots. Laughter from a voice I know is long gone. The terror of a command issued too late.
A name carved into the side of a pulse rifle in blood and flame.
His father’s name.
The Meld pulses. My throat tightens.
Naull doesn’t look at me, not directly, but his grip tightens on the control rig. “You still with me?”
I nod. “Yeah. I’m here.”
And I mean it.
We run another simulation—this time through a simulated wind vortex chamber.
The AI throws megafauna at us in triplicate, each beast a writhing mass of claws and roar.
Whiplash dances through them like we’ve been training for this all our lives.
Naull’s movements are wild but precise; I tether them with counterbalance and strategy.
I expect it to fall apart at any second, like it always used to, but it doesn’t.
It holds.
We hold.
When we land the final blow—twin whips decapitating the lead kaiju—Whiplash locks into a three-point stance and the system pings: Perfect sync achieved.
I exhale like I’ve been holding my breath for a decade.
“We did it,” I murmur.
Naull doesn’t say anything right away. Then: “You didn’t brace.”
“What?”
“You didn’t brace when we entered the vortex.”
I blink. “Didn’t need to.”
He hums. “Yeah. Guess not.”
There’s a pause. Not awkward. Just full of everything unspoken.
“Good session,” I say.
“Yeah.”
But neither of us moves to disconnect.
Whiplash hums around us. The meld space is still open, low and warm like the coals of a fire burning down.
I shift in my seat, suddenly aware of how close we are—not physically, not just, but mentally. Emotionally. We’re in each other now. Deeper than any proximity has ever gone.
He doesn’t hide behind jokes or swagger. I don’t wall myself behind sarcasm or silence.
And it terrifies me.
Because I know what comes next.
We’ve opened the door.
We either walk through it… or we slam it shut.
“I should go run diagnostics,” I say, already reaching for the neural cap.
But his voice stops me.
“Aria.”
It’s soft. No command. No cocky edge.
Just my name.
And I freeze.
I don’t want to look at him.
Because if I do, I might fall.
And I’ve only just learned how to stand.
“Yeah?” I say without turning.
“You don’t have to keep running.”
I bite the inside of my cheek. Hard.
“I’m not running.”
“You are. But it’s okay. I just... wanted you to know I’m not chasing. I’ll walk beside you. Or wait, if I have to.”
I laugh, but it’s sharp. Shaky. “That sounds like the start of a vow, not a battle strategy.”
His grin flashes through the Meld like a firecracker in my chest. “Maybe it’s both.”
“Idiot.”
“Yours.”
The word hits like a hammer between my ribs.
Mine.
I yank the neural cap off before I can respond. My whole body feels overheated—skin too tight, nerves too loud.
Beside me, he pulls off his own cap slowly. Doesn’t say another word. Just watches.
And I know.
I know if I let him, he’ll see everything.
Not just the anger. The fear. The grief.
But the want.
The ache.
The truth.
I’m not ready to give it.
Not all of it.
But I don’t leave.
I sit in the cockpit, fingers clenched around my lap belt, and breathe in the ozone-slick air of Whiplash’s control cabin. The metal walls feel closer now, like they’re echoing back every thought I can’t swallow.
Naull rests his hands on his knees, patient. Calm.
“I used to think you were the worst pilot they could’ve assigned me,” I whisper.
He tilts his head. “And now?”
“Now I think... maybe I was the worst tech they could’ve assigned you.”
His brows rise. “Why?”
“Because I almost sabotaged this. Us.”
He leans forward, voice low. “Then don’t.”
My pulse slams.
“Don’t sabotage it, Aria. Just… let it be. Let it breathe.”
I look at him. Finally.
And something in me cracks.
Not a break. A release.
And gods help me, I do.
Just for a second.
Just enough to lean forward and rest my forehead against his.
Not a kiss.
Not yet.
Just closeness.
His eyes close. Mine do too.
And we sit there. In the dark.
Together.
Breathing.
Alive.
The chamber doors hiss shut behind me, sealing away the taste of metal and fire. I strip the neural cap off my head like it’s a vice, dragging the cord with it. My scalp tingles from the static discharge, my skin still vibrating with his emotions.
It’s too much.
Too much of him. Too much of me.
The Meld is supposed to unify us—bridge the space between. But right now, it feels like we built the bridge out of dynamite and ran across it dragging lit matches.
My heart’s a thunderclap behind my ribs. My hands shake as I rip off the last of the suit gear, letting it drop to the floor with a hollow clatter. The artificial lighting above flickers with a pulse that syncs perfectly with my headache.
Gods. Breathe.
I grab the edge of the utility sink and lean into the cool porcelain, closing my eyes. The room smells like burned circuits and ozone and the faint tang of fear sweat. Mine. Maybe his too.
“You don’t get to control everything.”
The words echo like a punch thrown in a dream. Regret chases them—like always—but I shove it down. I meant what I said. Even if it came out raw.
He pushed.
And I broke.
That’s what we do. Like some terrible rhythm—push, pull, snap. Just when I think we’ve figured out how to be in sync, he overloads. And I react. Always the reactor. The one who flinches. The one who pulls back.
The one who runs.
I slam my palm against the sink’s rim, hard. The impact vibrates up my arm.
I hate this.
Not just the argument.
The almost. The ache that builds up between us like pressure under tectonic plates. Waiting. Always waiting for the next crack.
A voice clears behind me. Low. Gruff. Familiar.
“I didn’t mean to push you that hard.”
I stiffen.
Naull stands at the doorway, still in his Meld rig, the chest piece clutched in one hand like he’s not sure whether to hold it or throw it. His hair’s damp with sweat, sticking to his temple. His eyes, normally burning bright, are dimmer now. Smeared with guilt.
“I didn’t file the abort,” he says quietly, like that’s supposed to mean something.
And maybe it does.
I inhale through my nose, steady, trying to keep my voice from shaking. “You overloaded the neural relay. Again.”
He doesn’t deny it. “I know.”
“We could’ve crashed the whole sim.”
“I know.”
I whip around to face him, anger curling in my chest like smoke. “Do you know how that feels? To have your head jacked into someone else’s storm without warning?”
His jaw tightens. “Yeah. I do.”
“Then why do you keep doing it?”
“Because I can’t—” He breaks off, running a hand through his hair. His fingers tremble. “I can’t help it sometimes. The fight kicks in, and it’s like I can’t throttle down. I see the threat. I act. I have to.”
“Even if you take me down with you?”
That hits. I see it in the way he flinches, like I just kicked his ribs.
“I don’t want to hurt you, Aria,” he says, voice wrecked. “Gods, that’s the last thing I want.”
I believe him. But that’s not enough.
“I know you don’t,” I say, quieter now. “But this—this Meld—it’s not just you reacting and me keeping up. It’s both of us. Together. You can’t dominate it and expect me to just sync without consequences.”
He leans back against the bulkhead, exhaling hard.
A silence stretches. It isn’t angry this time. Just… exhausted.
“You said something in the Meld,” I murmur, eyes flicking to the floor. “You didn’t say it out loud, but I felt it.”
He looks up. “What?”
“You were scared.”
He doesn’t answer. That’s answer enough.
“I felt it,” I repeat, quieter. “You weren’t scared of the sim. Or the threat. You were scared of losing control. Of me seeing it.”
His throat bobs. “I’m not used to being seen.”
“Well,” I say, “you’re gonna have to get used to it.”
A pause.
Then he does something I don’t expect—he laughs. Just a breathy, bitter sound.
“You sound like my sister.”
I blink. “You never told me you had one.”
“Didn’t know if you wanted to know.”
I lean against the sink again, softer now. “Try me.”
Naull’s eyes flicker. Then he lowers himself to sit on the bench along the wall, the tension in his shoulders easing a fraction.
“She was younger. Smarter than me. Fierce. Had this way of making you feel like you belonged even when you didn’t.
She used to fix busted drones with broken tools and pure spite.
” He smiles faintly. “When she died, I tried to pretend like it didn’t affect me.
Like I could punch the grief into submission. ’”
I let the silence linger before I speak. “How long has she been gone?”
He nods. “Years ago.”
I swallow. “I’m sorry.”
He shrugs, but it’s not casual. It’s armor. “Wasn’t your fault.”
“No. But it explains a lot.”
He glances up, brows lifting.
“Why you push so hard. Why you react before you think. You don’t just fight because you want to win. You fight because you don’t want to lose anyone else.”
His eyes drop to the floor. “Is that what it feels like to you? Losing me?”
I hesitate. The words catch in my throat, tangled with everything I haven’t said.
“Yes.”
He meets my gaze. Something raw and real passes between us, no tech, no neural tethers. Just... human and Vakutan. Pilot and engineer. Messy and trying.
“I’m sorry,” he says again, and this time, I hear the break in it.
“I know,” I say. “So am I.”
A long pause.
He pushes off the bench and steps closer. Not towering. Not overwhelming. Just... there.
“You didn’t file the abort either,” he says.
“No,” I agree. “I didn’t.”
His lips twitch. “So what does that mean?”
I let out a breath. “It means we’re not done. We just have to learn how to fight without destroying each other.”
“Think we can?”
I look up at him. “I think we already are.”
Another beat of silence.
Then, like the idiot he is, he sticks out his hand. “Truce?”
I raise an eyebrow. “Seriously?”
“I’m trying to be symbolic here.”
I take his hand. It’s warm. Solid.
“Fine,” I say. “Truce.”
We shake on it like a couple of old generals.
But neither of us lets go right away.