Chapter 34
DARUN
When I wake up, the apartment is quiet. The hum of the holostation gently vibrating.
The scent of last night’s incense lingers—wood smoke, sandal, memory.
I push myself up, body screaming in slow protest, and stretch across the sheets until my hand brushes emptiness beside me.
She’s not there. I blink, listen. No child’s laughter yet.
No small footfalls. Only silence pressed thick against the windows.
I slip out of bed, padding to the living room. The morning light slants through the curtains, dust motes dancing in the glow. The couch is empty. Then I hear it—a giggle. A sharp, sweet sound. The kind of laugh that makes something inside you uncoil.
I follow the sound down the hall. Libra’s in the little play corner, sitting on the floor with bits of scrap metal and hovercar parts: springs, small plates, nuts and bolts.
Her tongue is stuck out in concentration.
She’s assembling. I stand behind her shoulder, watch her back.
Hair curled from sleep. Eyes bright in half-shadow.
She doesn’t see me at first. She’s deep in design.
I inhale: metal, oil, childhood. She twists a gear, fits it into a frame.
It clicks. She beams. “Tanky!” she says, stepping back to admire it on the floor: a toy creature—small, squat, wheels where feet should be, a barrel-like torso. A little machine born from scraps.
I crouch beside her. Her face is luminous.
“That is amazing,” I say.
She holds it out. “See? Tanky can roll!” She gives a gentle shove. It rolls forward. Her grin splits.
Amy appears in the doorway. I can’t look at her yet. I hear the soft intake of breath. Her eyes glisten behind dusk light. She watches us.
I take the toy from her, roll it back. “Hey, Tanky’s got mobility.” I pause. I glance at Amy. Her throat moves.
“She’s incredible,” I say quietly, not turning to you but knowing you hear.
Her voice is low, soft, “She’s ours.”
I turn and meet her eyes. There’s something fragile and fierce there—motherhood, memory, hope. But she doesn’t correct me aloud. Not yet.
We spend the morning building together—libra and me and Amy tinkering in that play corner. She hands me springs. I cut small plates. Amy teaches her to sand edges. I watch the two of them, heart jostling. I realize with a shock: I am part of this. I belong.
At midday we take Tanky to the courtyard.
She wheels it ahead. She races it under trees, over grass patches.
Its wheels scuff dirt. Libra runs beside it, laughs.
Amy trails behind. I push it gently from behind, catching her elbow when it wobbles.
The air smells of jasmine and sun-warmed pavement.
Children’s voices echo off nearby apartments.
Libra stops. Twists to stand between me and Amy. She wraps her arms around both our legs. I bend. Face her. She chitter-squeaks, “I love when you build things, Daddy.”
I nod. My throat thickens. I press my fingers to the scrapes on her knee. “Always.”
Amy leans in, whispers to me, soft, “I love watching you with her.”
I look at her. I press my palm to her cheek. She leans.
The rest of the afternoon folds into laughter: Tanky races, we gather scraps, she hugs both of us at sunset.
That night, when everything else is dark, she takes my hand and leads me down the hall. The door to her room is cracked lit by a teensy lamp. She opens it wider, steps inside. She blinks. I step in.
The air smells cool—linen, night, lingering perfume. The bed is made, pillows fluffed, soft light pooling. She turns so the lamp is behind me. I stare at her silhouette for a moment: hair down, shoulders bare in soft fabric. The space between us hums.
She steps close. I close the distance. Her skin is warm.
I smell her shampoo, something floral. I taste longing on my tongue.
She presses her lips to mine. Soft. Tentative at first, then deeper.
This isn’t desperation. This is home. This is trust. She threads arms around me; I hold her, feeling strength in softness.
We move slowly, debris of war falling away. There is no urgency. There is only the hush between breaths, the press of skin, the electricity in small touches. She parts lips; I taste her breath. She murmurs. I brush hair off her neck. She sighs. The bed creaks under the weight of memory.
She guides me down, pulls me over sheets. I kneel in. She kisses my scars. I trace her spine—past the curve, the hollow. The scent of warm skin, of her heartbeat pulsing under fingers. Every nerve alive. We slip together.
Later, she holds me as I sleep. Her breath soft on my shoulder. Her head tucked into the curve of my neck. For once, the ghosts don’t come. For once, I sleep. Not waiting. Not haunted. Just here, in her arms.
Dawn breaks by slanting light right under the shades into my eyes. I wake—sun slanting pink. I lie still. She’s beside me, peaceful. The toy scrap pieces scattered across the floor downstairs, Tanky somewhere. I realize I’m smiling. My bones feel lighter. My heart feels full.
I cradle her. She stirs. She murmurs my name. The secret in the room—the lines unspoken—hang between us. But now between flesh and breath, there is love. There is trust. There is a place that is ours.
I drift off, thinking: maybe the armor is behind me now. Tonight, I will sleep without fear.