Chapter 13
ARIA
The orders drop like a guillotine.
Direct deployment. No backup. No delay.
Me and Naull.
Intercept. Neutralize. Survive.
I stare at the command slate in my lap, fingers trembling just above the surface, the words blurry around the edges.
Alpha-Titan. Megafauna class.
A new designation. Something that’s never shown up in Rhavadaz’s scans before. Bigger than anything we’ve seen. Bigger than anything Whiplash has handled. Bigger than our best guesses—and our worst nightmares.
Outside the workshop, the base is quiet. Not with peace. With dread.
Morale’s shot to hell. They all think we’re already dead. I can feel it in their silence. In the way no one meets my eyes when I pass. In the way Cowley didn’t bother to give us a rousing speech this time. Just handed us the slate like it was a countdown.
I’m not ready.
Gods, I’m not ready.
But I sit there anyway. Tools scattered around me. Neural bands humming on standby. A half-repaired interface node in my lap I’m not really fixing, just turning over in my hands like it might tell me something useful.
My hands won’t stop shaking.
And then I feel him.
Not see—feel.
Naull doesn’t knock. Doesn’t speak. Just stands in the doorway like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to be here.
He is.
He always is.
I don’t look up right away. Just breathe. Try to make sense of the ache in my chest, the knot behind my ribs that’s tightening with every passing minute.
“It might be the last time,” I say. Quiet. Like the words taste wrong even leaving my mouth.
I finally look at him.
He’s already watching me.
There’s something raw in his face. Something too open for a man trained to bury everything. It twists something deep in me.
He takes a breath like he’s about to say something heavy.
Instead, he just says, “Then let’s not waste it.”
That’s all it takes.
I cross the room in three strides and kiss him like the world’s already ending.
And maybe it is.
This kiss isn’t careful.
It’s not slow.
It’s not frantic, either.
It’s final.
Desperate.
Honest.
Like all the things we didn’t say the night before are crashing into this moment with claws and teeth. Like every second we’ve denied this is now begging to be burned down.
We don’t undress.
We tear.
Off zips. Buckles. Straps. Gloves. Shirts. It’s all noise in the way, and we rip it free like it’s an enemy we can’t afford to show mercy to.
His mouth is on mine, then my neck, then my shoulder. He moves like he’s memorizing me. Like every inch of skin is a line in a song he thought he’d forgotten.
I feel the sting of the weld-burn scar on his palm as it grazes my thigh.
I gasp.
He growls.
Then lifts me like I weigh nothing, presses me against the cold wall of the workshop, the gear hooks rattling behind us.
My legs wrap around him. Natural. Instinctive.
Our hips find a rhythm that’s less dance and more warcry.
His voice is low in my ear—Vakutan words I still don’t understand, but I don’t need to. Because I feel them.
Every one.
Vibration and heat and reverence.
His hands—gods, his hands—grip my thighs like I’m something sacred. Like letting go would undo him. Like I’m already a ghost and he’s trying to hold onto something that’s slipping.
I claw at his shoulders, his back, desperate to feel all of him. I need this. I need him. Not later. Not after the mission.
Now.
His lips find mine again, and I kiss him like I’m trying to etch myself into his memory. Like if we die tomorrow, I want my name to be the last word he thinks.
“Aria,” he rasps. Rough. Bare.
“Don’t stop,” I whisper back.
I see stars behind my eyes when we fall into each other completely—no space, no hesitation. Just truth, stripped down and raw. His forehead presses to mine. We don’t break eye contact. Not once.
And it’s not just sex.
It’s not just a goodbye.
It’s a claim.
It’s everything.
We’re shaking when it’s over.
Breathless. Slick with sweat. Skin flushed from heat and adrenaline and the high of finally letting go.
He slides down the wall with me still wrapped around him. We hit the floor tangled—bodies loose, hearts hammering.
Neither of us speaks.
There’s no need.
Because the silence between us isn’t empty this time.
It’s full.
Of all the things we just said without words.
And I know—deep in my bones—that whatever comes next, this moment will haunt me forever.
Not because it hurts.
Because it matters.
I don’t know when the tears started.
Somewhere between the way his hands curled against my spine and the way his mouth brushed over my collarbone like I was something delicate.
They weren’t sobs. Not loud. Not messy.
Just silent.
Just real.
They slid from the corners of my eyes and into my hairline, soaking into the sweat already there. Salt and salt and salt. Like my body couldn’t tell the difference between grief and need.
Naull didn’t ask.
Didn’t flinch.
He just held me tighter.
Like he knew the ghosts I carried. Like he’d met every one of them and decided to wrap his arms around me anyway.
His voice was a breath against my ear, rough and reverent.
“I see you,” he whispered.
Then again, softer: “All of you.”
And for the first time in gods know how long, I believed it.
I let myself.
I didn’t armor up. Didn’t shrink away. Didn’t toss a joke into the air to deflect.
For one perfect hour, I wasn’t an engineer. Or a soldier. Or a cog in some grinding machine meant to chew up people like us and spit out bone dust.
I wasn’t broken.
I wasn’t doomed.
I was just… his.
And I let myself have that.
Fully.
No fear. No guilt. No holding back.
I whispered secrets into his shoulder. Things I’d never said aloud. Things I hadn’t even thought in years. Fragments of memories. Names. Shames. The first time I ever saw someone die. The last time I felt safe. The number of dreams I’d buried under rank and orders and survival.
He didn’t say a word.
Just held me tighter, his hand moving in slow circles across my back, his lips brushing my throat as he murmured promises in a language I didn’t understand—but felt in my bones.
Vows made without ceremony.
Just truth.
And when it was over—when our bodies stopped trembling and our hearts beat slower in sync—I curled into him and let sleep come.
I didn’t fight it.
Didn’t jerk awake at the first shift of weight. Didn’t startle from the half-memory of battle horns or sirens. Didn’t brace for impact.
I just let my body melt into his, breath warming the space between us, limbs tangled and slick and heavy with everything we’d just poured out.
I dreamed.
Not of war. Not of fire.
I dreamed of starlight on still water. Of laughter. Of him, standing at the edge of some distant ridge with his arms wide open, calling me home.
But when I wake, the dream vanishes in a blink.
The world is cold.
The light is gray.
His side of the floor—because we never made it to the cot—is empty.
I push up slowly, the silence around me sudden and sharp. A silence that knows.
I wrap my arms around myself and breathe.
He’s gone.
Not gone-gone.
But up.
Moving.
I can feel it in the air. The scent of solder and neural gel still clings to the edge of the room. His tools are gone from the bench. The interface slate is powered down, but freshly used.
He’s prepping.
Whiplash.
For war.
I don’t stop him.
Can’t.
I just pull on my undersuit, the cold synthetic fabric clinging to skin still flushed with heat and memory.
I seal the chest plate with a hiss, lock my gauntlets into place, and press my forehead to the cool panel of the door before it opens.
My breath fogs against the surface.
And I pray.
Not to win.
Not even to live.
I just pray this won’t be the last time we touch.