39. Jordan #2
“So,” he finishes, rough, “if you’ll have me… then have me. Stay. Marry me. Or whatever word makes sense to you.”
I stare at him.
A thousand instincts try to get in the way—fear, caution, the old reflex to say I’m fine and vanish into work-mode.
But the truth is simpler and louder than all of them.
I want him.
Not as an escape.
As a choice.
As a partner I’m willing to claim in daylight.
“Lonari,” I whisper, voice shaking, “you are so bad at this.”
His mouth tightens like he’s bracing for a hit. “Yeah.”
I step closer until I can feel his heat through the wind.
Then I say it without hesitation, because I’m done living in half-measures.
“Yes.”
Lonari blinks, like his brain needs a second to accept language.
“Yes?” he repeats.
I laugh again, tears in my eyes now because my body is apparently having a full emotional coup.
“Yes,” I say, firmer. “I’m not going anywhere. I choose you.”
His shoulders loosen in a way that makes him look younger. Less like a godfather and more like a man who just got handed oxygen.
He exhales, ragged. “Good.”
Then he adds, quieter, like it’s a confession: “Because I’m not letting you go.”
I hold out my hand.
Lonari’s fingers are steady as he slides the ring onto it. The metal is cool against my skin. It sits there like a promise with weight.
I stare at it for a second, stunned by how real it looks on me.
Then I look up at him and grin, because apparently I’m capable of joy and that’s terrifying.
“You realize this makes me even more of a target,” I say.
Lonari’s eyes darken. “Let them come.”
I shake my head, laughing softly. “You’re insane.”
He steps closer, and his voice drops. “So are you.”
Then he kisses me.
Not frantic.
Not desperate.
Just… sure.
A kiss that says: we survived. We’re still here. We’re choosing this in the open.
The wind whips around us, tugging at hair and coats, and I press into him like the rooftop is the only stable thing in the universe.
When we break apart, my forehead rests against his for a moment.
I whisper, “I can’t believe you did that up here.”
Lonari’s mouth curves faintly. “Why?”
“Because you’re allergic to romance,” I mutter.
He huffs. “This isn’t romance. This is strategy.”
I laugh, and it’s warm and real. “God. You proposed like a warlord signing a treaty.”
Lonari’s voice is dry. “It worked.”
“It did,” I admit, and my chest hurts with how much I mean it.
Later, in a private suite beneath the Nun’s glittering chaos, the world finally quiets enough for my body to remember it exists.
The room smells like clean linen and citrus and the faint smoke that clings to Lonari no matter how often he showers. The lights are low. The security locks are engaged, not because we’re paranoid—though we are—but because this city has taught us that safety is built, not wished for.
Lonari stands near the window for a moment, watching the skyline like it might change shape while he blinks.
Then he turns to me, and the intensity in his gaze is different now—softer, but no less sharp.
“You’re shaking,” he says.
I glance down and realize my hands are trembling slightly.
“Adrenaline hangover,” I mutter. “I’m fine.”
Lonari’s eyes narrow. “Don’t.”
I roll my eyes, but there’s no fight in it. “Okay. I’m not fine.”
He crosses the room in two steps and cups my face like he’s grounding me to something real.
“You don’t have to be fine,” he says.
I swallow, feeling the ring against my skin. Feeling the weight of yes.
We choose intimacy like we chose it last time—not as escape, but as closure. As relief. As commitment with skin and breath.
The details blur into warmth and murmured words, into his hands steady on my waist, into the way my body finally unclenches because someone else is holding the perimeter for once.
I whisper his name like it’s a promise.
He answers with mine like it’s a vow.
Afterward, we lie tangled in sheets, the air cool against my skin, my mind quieter than it has been in weeks.
Lonari’s arm is heavy across my waist. His breathing is slow. Alive.
I stare at the ceiling and feel something unfamiliar settle in my chest.
Hope.
Not naive hope. Not the kind that thinks systems become good because you asked politely.
The kind that knows systems can be forced.
The kind that knows infrastructure is a weapon—and can be a shield.
I turn my head slightly, watching Lonari’s face in the dim. The lines of tension are still there. The readiness. The quiet violence he keeps caged.
But there’s something else too now.
Belonging.
“Lonari,” I whisper.
He makes a low sound, half-asleep. “Mm?”
“I’m staying,” I say.
His eyes open slowly, focusing. “I assumed.”
I huff. “Don’t assume anything about me.”
His mouth curves faintly. “Fair.”
I shift slightly, the ring catching faint light. “I’m not staying because I’m trapped,” I say. “Or because I need protection. I’m staying because… I want to build something here.”
Lonari’s eyes sharpen. “What kind of something?”
“Infrastructure,” I say, and I hear my own voice steady into purpose. “Systems that make it harder for power to disappear people again. Redundant evidence channels. Civilian comm resilience. Public audit mirrors. Stuff that doesn’t rely on one brave idiot getting lucky.”
Lonari’s thumb strokes lightly over my hip, grounding.
“You’ll make enemies,” he says.
“I already have enemies,” I reply. “I might as well make defenses too.”
He studies me for a long moment, then nods once. “Good.”
I smile softly. “You’re not going to tell me to slow down?”
Lonari exhales, almost amused. “I’m going to tell you to eat and sleep sometimes.”
“Rude,” I mutter.
He leans in and kisses my temple. “Necessary.”
I close my eyes for a moment, letting the warmth settle.
Outside, Gur hums. Not healed. Not safe.
But alive.
And for the first time in a long time, I’m not just surviving inside a machine.
I’m building one that can’t be used against us as easily.
I open my eyes, look at the ring again, and the weight of the choice doesn’t feel like a chain.
It feels like a handle.
Something to hold onto when the world shakes.