Chapter 25
TATEK
Idream of stars.
Not the ones I used to chase as a boy—cold and unreachable, scattered across the void like things you could map but never hold. These stars aren’t distant. They don’t hang in someone else’s sky. They burn behind my ribs, tucked inside the space where belief lives.
They burn because she’s here.
Because Mara is here.
I drift in that warmth for what feels like a lifetime. The kind of dream where you’re not running, not fighting, not searching for an exit. Just floating. Weightless. Whole.
And then—
The world stirs.
Quietly.
Not with urgency. Just... change.
The air shifts.
The texture of fabric against my skin sharpens. The old floor beneath my spine stiffens. A sound—soft, rhythmic, close—resolves into breath. Her breath.
I open my eyes.
The room is still dark, but dawn’s edge is pressing faintly at the bulkhead seams, teasing the shape of things out of shadow.
Mara’s curled against my chest, one hand fisted in the front of my tunic like she’s afraid I’ll disappear if she lets go.
I don’t move right away.
I just look at her.
Her hair is a mess of curls and tangles across my shoulder. Her mouth slightly open, breath feathering against my skin. The hand clutching my shirt tightens unconsciously as she shifts in her sleep, nestling in closer like she knows I’m awake.
And gods, the way that undoes me.
This woman. This fighter. This storm of a person who’s never let anyone in unless they bled for the privilege—she’s here. With me. Wrapped up like I’m the tether keeping her from floating away.
I lift my free hand, brushing a loose strand of hair from her cheek.
She sighs softly.
Not awake.
Not yet.
But I feel her. Every inch of her.
And I know—I know—I’ll never leave this. Never walk away. Not even if the whole system burns and every last protocol shouts me down.
I press my lips to her forehead, then her temple.
And finally, I move.
Carefully.
I lift her hand from my chest and bring it to my mouth, kissing her palm with a gentleness I didn’t know I was capable of.
She doesn’t wake.
But her fingers twitch, like some part of her knows.
I place her hand back against her chest, draping the fabric of the blanket over her bare shoulders.
Then I rise.
The floor creaks beneath my feet, quiet as confession. I stretch, joints cracking, muscles still pleasantly sore from everything we didn’t say out loud. There’s a lightness in me now I don’t quite recognize—like something has shifted in my center of gravity.
I don’t just love her.
I belong to her.
And that changes everything.
The shuttle bay smells like heat and lift exhaust and too many goodbyes.
I stand just inside the hangar threshold, arms crossed, watching the loading crews ferry refugees into lines.
There’s a strange order to it—quiet, almost reverent.
No shouting. No panic. Just movement. Parents guiding children with soft words.
Old soldiers helping civilians who can barely walk.
Small pockets of laughter, of singing, even.
Like someone decided survival wasn’t enough. Not today. Today they want to live.
The overhead lights flicker once as the main transport powers up its secondary thrusters. Wind kicks through the hangar as the atmospheric shield cycles. I squint into it, blinking against grit.
Mara stands beside me, her stance open but alert—like part of her is still expecting a trap that hasn’t been sprung yet. She’s in a patched flight jacket, collar up, sleeves shoved to her elbows. Her hands are tucked into her back pockets, but she’s not relaxed. Not really.
I know the tension in her spine. It’s the one that says: I’m waiting for the catch.
“There isn’t one,” I say, softly.
She doesn’t look at me. Just keeps watching the boarding line. “There’s always a catch.”
I shrug. “Not this time.”
She turns her head, eyes narrowing. “You sure?”
“About as sure as I’ve ever been.”
She lets out a soft huff of breath and turns back toward the shuttles. Her expression is unreadable. Carefully neutral. But I can tell it’s hitting her.
All of it.
The evacuation. The pardon. The fact that we’re still standing after everything.
Civil Affairs disbanded last night—quietly, without fanfare. A message came through the diplomatic uplink: formal dissolution, signed and sealed. The leadership structure’s gone. Command lines redacted. Every operative granted clemency under Article Twelve. Even the ghost units.
We won.
Or at least—we stopped losing.
I look over at her again.
“You could take it,” I say.
Her brow arches. “Take what?”
“The offer. You earned it. You scared the hell out of half the Alliance just by surviving. They’d follow you now. Hell, they’d put you at the head of the new security council if you blinked in their direction.”
Mara snorts. “Gods. Can you imagine me behind a desk?”
“Yes,” I say, honest. “But I wouldn’t like it.”
She actually laughs.
A short, real sound.
Then she looks at me. Really looks at me. Her eyes are bright and dark all at once.
“They offered it,” she says quietly. “Advisory post. Sectorwide clearance. High-level access. All the resources. No oversight.”
“And?”
“I turned it down.”
“Why?”
She looks away again, watching the last of the refugee families file into the shuttle.
A little girl stops at the threshold. She turns around, waves at a technician near the bay entrance. He waves back, smiling through tears.
Mara’s voice drops.
“I don’t want to manage systems,” she says. “I want to protect them.”
My chest tightens.
Because that’s her. Always has been.
Not interested in titles or ranks or walls.
She wants to be on the ground, where it hurts. Where she can hold the line.
I step closer, not touching yet.
Then I reach for her hand.
She lets me.
Fingers sliding into mine like we were always built this way.
“Then we do it together,” I say.
Her grip tightens.
The corridor to the shuttle is quiet.
Not empty—quiet. The kind of silence that settles in after something sacred. There’s still movement in the bay. Crews finishing the last checks. A few scattered voices over comms. The low hum of auxiliary engines spinning up for final launch prep.
But here, just outside the loading ramp—
It’s just us.
Mara stands with her back to the access doors, head tilted slightly, eyes on me like she’s waiting for a signal I haven’t given yet. She doesn’t fidget. Doesn’t shift her weight or scan the room. She’s still, composed, but I can feel the tension just under her skin.
She knows something’s coming.
I take a slow step forward.
Then another.
Until we’re close enough to share breath.
Close enough that all I have to do is lean in, and our foreheads touch.
And I do.
I rest mine against hers, eyes closed, pulse steady.
Her breath hitches.
“Is this—?” she starts.
I don’t let her finish.
“Don’t speak,” I murmur. “Not yet.”
She nods. Just once. Then stills.
I lift my hands to her face, fingers cradling her jaw. Not possessive. Not even protective. Just reverent. Anchored. Like I’m holding something that was once a myth and is now real.
Then I speak.
Not loud. Not soft.
Steady.
“Shared in silence.”
Her fingers find my hips.
“Chosen in truth.”
She leans in just a little closer.
“Remembered beyond name.”
The air shifts around us—like even the ship knows to stay quiet.
For a long moment, she doesn’t answer.
And then—
“I was made to be forgotten,” she whispers. “But you remembered me. And I remember you.”
Something cracks open in my chest.
Not pain.
Not grief.
Something older. Deeper.
The kind of break that makes room for a new shape.
I open my eyes.
Hers are already on me.
“I love you,” I say.
“I know,” she replies. Then grins. “But it’s nice to hear anyway.”
I laugh—really laugh—and it breaks the last of the tension between us.
We don’t need a crowd.
We don’t need a proclamation.
Just this moment. This bond.
Ours.
I take her hand.
She squeezes once.
And together, we walk up the ramp and into the shuttle.
Inside, the lighting is dim, calm. There are only a few others aboard—families with children, an old captain with a datapad, a woman cradling a coded crate like it holds her whole future.
We move past them to the back.
Take a seat by the viewport.
Mara leans against me, her shoulder against mine, the silence between us easy now. I rest my hand on her knee. She lays hers over it.
Outside, the final boarding call echoes through the hangar.
Engines whine.
A gentle tremor runs through the floor.
And then—we lift.
Mara doesn’t look back.
Neither do I.
Because the past is behind us.
And the future is forward.
And we are walking into it—
Together.