Chapter 22 Aria
ARIA
The simpod door closes with a hush, leaving only silence and the echo of almost. Almost connected. Almost merged. Almost enough.
The Meld had flickered today—like a match that wouldn’t quite catch. We brushed against each other’s thoughts, but they slid past instead of sinking in. I felt it—the hesitation. The static. The wall we hadn’t named yet.
I told the techs it was neural drift. Fatigue. A tech hiccup. They logged it. Nodded. Moved on.
But I know better.
Garma breathes slow and even against my chest, his lashes long, cheeks flushed from dreaming. I run my fingers through his curls, something inside me twisting at how warm and heavy he feels draped across me—so real. So alive. He’s the only thing in this universe that makes sense.
I wait until Garma is down for the night. Until the quiet in the apartment feels unbearable. Until the ache in my chest pushes past pride.
Then I rise. I don’t even grab a sweater.
The hall is short. His door is closed, light a sliver under the frame. My fist hovers to knock, but I don’t.
I just open it.
Naull’s on the bed. Shirtless. Sitting in that hunched, thinking posture he gets when the world presses too hard. His hands are clasped. Knuckles white.
He looks up. Eyes wide.
“Aria—”
I don’t let him finish. I cross the room and grab the front of his shirt like it’s the only thing anchoring me to gravity. I kiss him hard—no hesitation. No question. No words.
He catches me like he always does, palms cradling my jaw, lips parting in surprise and then surrender.
It’s heat, yes. Hunger. But more than that—it’s us. All the things we’ve been holding back, cracked open in one shared breath.
My hands find the back of his neck, the scar that curves down his shoulder. He trembles under my touch.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he whispers, forehead pressed to mine.
“Then tell me to go.”
He doesn’t.
We fall backward into the bed like a wave breaking. Our movements aren’t gentle. They’re desperate. Honest. My fingers find the waistband of his pants, and his breath stutters. He meets my eyes, searching, like this might still be a dream he’s afraid to wake from.
“You’re sure?”
“I need this,” I say. “I need you.”
His hands slide along my waist, up my spine, memorizing. Worshipping. The kiss deepens—slower now. Intentional. He pulls me into his lap, and I melt into the curve of his chest, the rhythm of his breathing syncing with mine.
When we come together, it’s not frantic. It’s not performative.
It’s true.
He holds me like I’m breakable and burning at the same time. His name escapes me in pieces, torn between gasps and whispers. He buries his face in my neck and says mine like it’s a vow.
We move as one. Like muscle memory. Like poetry.
Later, I’m curled against his chest, skin damp, heart loud. He brushes my hair back, fingers gentle.
“I think you’re already mine,” he says into my hair.
My throat tightens. I don’t answer. I can’t. But I don’t move away either.
The quiet that settles between us isn’t empty. It’s full—of all the things we’ve survived. All the things we’re still afraid of.
I drift off with his hand warm on my back and his breath steady in my ear.
And for the first time in years, I sleep without nightmares.
I don’t remember falling asleep.
Just the feel of his skin, warm and solid, pressed against mine. The cadence of his breathing at my back, slow and deliberate, like he’s afraid I’ll vanish if he exhales too hard.
Somewhere in the dark, I’d let myself unravel. Not just the physical—though that, too. But the way I’d let my guard down. Let him in. Let myself feel things I swore I’d buried under the bones of old missions and even older grief.
Now, as the first blue light of morning bleeds through the window, I shift without waking him.
I untangle my limbs, careful not to stir the mattress.
Naull sighs in his sleep, murmuring something in Vakutan—a sound I don’t know but feel anyway.
I slip from the bed and pull on my shirt, fingers shaking a little.
The air’s cool outside our little cocoon of heat. My bare feet find the hallway tile. Garma’s door creaks softly when I open it.
He’s still asleep. Arms thrown wide, hair damp against his brow. A small fortress of stuffed animals forms a perimeter around him—his battle squad. His scent, baby-sweet and sun-warmed, rises up when I lean over and press a kiss to his forehead.
He stirs. Murmurs.
“Mama…”
“I’m here,” I whisper. “Always.”
And then I leave the room before I cry.
The kitchen is dim. I sit on the old bench by the window with a blanket wrapped tight around my shoulders. The glass is cold beneath my fingertips. Outside, the courtyard is soaked in morning fog. The garden stones gleam. A fox darts through the hedges—silent, fast, gone.
Naull’s scent lingers on my skin. Earth and ozone. That impossible smell of Rhavadaz storms and metal corridors. I breathe it in and feel my throat tighten.
I press a hand to my lips.
He’d said, I think you’re already mine.
And gods help me, I think I wanted to be.
But beneath that want is the truth I keep swallowing. Bitter. Heavy. Real.
He doesn’t know.
He doesn’t know that Garma’s not just mine.
That every time he kneels to tie the boy’s shoe or catches him mid-stumble, some ancient part of him is responding to a bond it doesn't even recognize yet.
I tell myself I’m protecting him.
That I’m keeping the moment sacred a little longer.
But the truth is—I’m scared.
Scared of what it will do to him.
To us.
The kettle clicks on. I don’t remember turning it.
The steam curls in lazy spirals above the spout, and I watch it like it might spell out answers. Like maybe the heat knows what I don’t.
Naull appears in the doorway minutes later. Barefoot. Shirt half-tucked. Hair mussed like he’s been fighting sleep with his fists.
He leans against the frame. Doesn’t speak.
I look away.
“Didn’t mean to wake you,” I murmur.
“You didn’t.” His voice is low, rough. “I woke up cold.”
I say nothing.
He steps into the kitchen, silent, barefoot tread soft on the stone. He stops behind me. Doesn’t touch. But I feel him there. Heat and presence and unspoken things.
“You always run after.”
I stiffen. “I don’t run.”
He doesn’t argue.
Which somehow hurts more.
“I check on Garma,” I say, too quickly.
“I know.”
And then there’s silence again, thick and full.
“Aria.”
I brace for it.
But what he says next isn’t what I expect.
“I’m not asking for anything.”
I turn to look at him. He meets my eyes, steady, unwavering.
“I’m not trying to trap you. Or rush you. I just… I want to be near you. However you’ll let me.”
His words soften something inside me that’s been wound too tight for too long. I close my eyes.
“It’s not you I don’t trust,” I say quietly.
“I know.”
I take a breath. Let it out slow.
“It’s everything else.”
We sit in silence while the tea brews.
He pours it for me without asking, like he knows which mug I use. Which blend I keep in the back cabinet. It’s the smallest thing, but it feels enormous.
“I used to sit like this on Rhavadaz,” he says finally, nodding toward the window. “After missions. Just watch the sky try to kill us.”
I smirk. “And now you watch fog.”
“Honestly? It’s creepier.”
I laugh—actually laugh—and he grins like it’s a prize.
“Garma loves the fog,” I say. “Says it looks like the clouds forgot how to fly.”
Naull chuckles. “Smart kid.”
“Yeah,” I say softly. “Too smart.”
His brow furrows. “That scare you?”
“Sometimes,” I admit.
There’s a beat of quiet.
“Do you ever think about what you’d tell him?” he asks. “When he’s older?”
I don’t answer.
I don’t have to.
He sees the truth in my silence.
The air shifts.
Naull sets his cup down with a soft clink and stands. Walks behind me. His hands find my shoulders. Gentle. Warm.
“You’re not alone in this,” he says.
“I’ve been alone.”
“You don’t have to be now.”
I lean back into him. Just a little. Just enough.
“He has your eyes,” he says into my hair.
I swallow hard.
“I know.”
That’s all we say.