25. Troka
TROKA
Iknock softly. The hallway light flickers overhead. The synth-cookie bag rustles in my hand. My heart is loud, rattling ribs.
The door slides open. Alaina stands there, framed in dim light. Hair messy, eyes tired.
“Hey,” I say, voice hoarse.
She nods. “You came all this way.”
I step inside. The apartment smells of baby lotion, stale tea, and something faint—her. I set the cookie bag on a low table, letting the plastic crinkle.
“You good?” I ask, seating myself a half-pace away on the couch. The upholstery springs protest under my weight.
She perches beside me. The couch is too small for both of us, and I can feel her shoulder brushing mine. I like it.
I clear my throat. “I wanted— I owe you an apology.”
She glances at the bag of cookies. “You always bring sweets when you’re about to say something serious.”
I crack a weak smile. “Old trick. Works when words fail.”
Her lips twitch. “Words—” She stares at her hands, twisting the edge of her sleeve. “I thought we left words behind.”
I wait. Silence stretches. The buzz of neon outside, the hum of air vents, the distant drip of water somewhere in the building—all of it seems to fade.
She looks up. “You said you needed to tell me something.”
I take a breath. “I do. But I want you to speak first. Say what you had ready.”
She studies me. Brow furrows. Her voice is low. “I was ready. But something held me back.”
I shift closer. “Tell me anyway.”
She opens and closes her mouth, fighting. The tremble in her voice: “I don’t want you to feel trapped.”
“Trapped?” I whisper. “By you? Never.”
She laughs, sad. “You say that. But sometimes your silence says otherwise.”
I swallow. “I’ve heard that silence too long.”
She runs a hand over her cheek. “I—Troka, last night.” Her fingers stretch toward mine, quivering.
“Yes?” I urge gently.
“I’m scared,” she says. “Scared you’ll leave again. Scared that telling you breaks something we can’t fix.”
I lean in. Nose to her temple. “You won’t lose me over the truth.”
She closes her eyes a moment, breath lingering over me. “I wish— I wish I could believe that.”
I cup her cheek. “Then give me a chance to prove it.”
Her lips part. She leans forward—slow. Tender. Not desperate. Our lips meet.
She tastes like tears and syrup and fear. I draw her in. Her fingers splay on my chest. Her body presses.
When we break, her breath hitches.
“Is this real?” she whispers.
Instinct wants to shout Yes. But nerves hold it back.
I pull her closer and kiss her again, letting it answer.
She rests her forehead against me. I hold her so she knows: I’m not leaving. Not when the truth is ready, even if it’s late.