Page 13 of Skyn (After the End #3)

Birds…What the fuck?

“I have one hour and thirty-seven minutes of unassigned time,” Ben says, his voice so close and sudden.

I jolt, nearly rolling off the bed. I sprawl out, starfish style, digesting the massive breakfast, feeling cocooned in the quiet safety of his walls.

I wanted to go outside, to breathe real air, to see the sky, but the idea of all that open space presses in on me.

Too big. Too much. I just want to find the basement and stay there.

“Go spend it doing calculations,” I mutter, burrowing deeper into the mattress.

“I want to teach you some aboveground protocol.”

“This is deeply amusing,” I say, flipping onto my side to face him.

He’s standing at the foot of the bed, hands behind his back like he’s giving an official presentation.

His presence is…imposing, even when he’s doing nothing at all.

“I’ve spent my entire life studying the world you were born into.

If anything, I should be teaching you Mine protocol.

” I spring up. “Let’s go find a tunnel!”

He doesn’t even blink. “You’re afraid to go outside.”

I scoff. “Afraid is a strong word. I just love your walls. They’re so straight. And your ceiling—so protective of my skull from falling objects.”

Ben tilts his head, considering. “Nothing falls from the sky but rain.”

“And you think that’s safe? Water from an unknown source dropping directly into your eye?” I narrow mine at him. “Do you know you can catch syphilis in the eye?”

His lip twitches, the tiniest movement. “You read that in the IS?”

I pretend not to hear him. His bots, of course, betray me. They descend on me like a small but efficient army, dragging clothes onto my body before I can argue, smoothing out fabric, fussing with my sleeves like I’m some unwilling debutante. I squawk as they practically push me toward the door.

“Ben, I—”

“We’ll just walk around the block.” He’s unbothered, adjusting his own cuffs with an elegant flick of his wrist. “You can hold my hand.”

I pause. “Do you…?” I hesitate, suddenly unsure. “Can I have a helmet?”

Ben’s head jerks up slightly, his gaze scanning my face like he’s running some probability analysis. “You absolutely can wear a mining helmet outside,” he says evenly, “if you would like to look peculiar.”

“So…no. Got it.” I exhale. “How about a hat?”

Without hesitation, he reaches into a nearby closet and produces a wide-brimmed liquid-metal hat. It gleams in the light, shifting subtly like it’s alive. When he places it on my head, his fingers linger a second longer than necessary, smoothing the brim with care. I swallow.

“Are you ready?” he asks.

I lift my chin and try to sound steady. “Of course.”

Of course I’m not.

The door slides open, and the world outside swallows me whole.

Everything is so bright. Not just the sun, though that alone is a menace. Even the air smells too crisp, too manufactured, like it’s been scrubbed clean of anything real.

Ben steps forward first, of course, moving like this place was built for him. He’s sleek, impeccable, his coat catching the light, his cybernetics gleaming so flawlessly that he might as well have been sculpted for this exact backdrop. He looks…effortless and genuinely…beautiful.

I cling to the hat like it might fly off, like I might fly off. The wide-open sky above feels wrong. How is there just nothing up there? No ceiling, no low-hanging beams, no rock threatening to cave in.

And listen—birds. What the fuck? No one told me birds are still a thing up here.

Belowground, they’re an abstraction, something you read about in the pre-apocalypse sections of history modules.

But outside, birds are a little less conceptual.

The thought of one swooping down, talons extended, and tangling up in my hair keeps me from fully appreciating the picturesque tableau.

I stare straight ahead, pretending not to notice the way people openly stare.

The reactions are nearly identical, no matter who they come from: a flick of the eyes, widening just slightly, then a subtle recalibration, as if their probability matrices are scrambling to process the what and why of us walking together.

“Let them look,” Ben murmurs, like he can hear my thoughts. His hand brushes against mine.

A small thing. A nothing thing. Maybe even accidental. But I feel it like a current running up my arm. He doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t acknowledge it at all. Just keeps walking with his fingers grazing against mine with each step. Then he stills.

Not a full stop—just a hesitation. And, before I can say anything, he tightens his fingers around mine.

I cannot tell you, under threat of mind erasure, why holding his hand makes my heart beat out of my ribs. He is a machine. He doesn’t even have the parts for tenderness. Does he?

I am intoxicated. High on his cologne or the feel of his metal hand in mine.

The streets up here are unnervingly spotless, like I’m constantly walking into someone’s bathroom.

Ben keeps stealing glances—quick, furtive looks that hint at some uneasiness. I keep pretending not to notice, which is its own kind of work.

As we walk, he takes me through introductions, posture, the correct way to hold a glass depending on what’s inside.

There’s an entire lesson on pausing—pausing before you respond, pausing before you take a sip, pausing before you step into a room to let others absorb your presence.

It’s all absurdly calculated, but I can tell it matters to him, so I lean in, listening.

I start to relax into the outside. Once you get over the threat of birds, it really is lovely. The beauty aboveground feels like nasty propaganda though. It makes you start to feel like you deserve it. Like you’re up here because you are inherently good.

Ben glances down at my collarbone. I think he may be a little into the IS. He stares at this diamond like he’s thinking dirty thoughts about it.

He leans down to whisper, and I think it’s going to be something filthy.

But, instead, he says, “I want to show you what I’ve been researching in the IS.

” We’ve circled the block a few times, so he pulls me excitedly back into the house, up the stairs, and to what he called a terrace.

Apparently rich people love the outside so much, they have it built into their homes.

“Do you regret marrying a below-grounder to prove a point?”

“Not yet.”

“It’s just that this all has an expiration date, right? I can’t stay here like this forever. If you don’t regret it now, you will.”

I don’t expect him to drop his voice lower, eyes flicking downward when he says, “I hurt someone.”

I pause, mirroring the lesson he just gave me. “Lily?”

His throat works like the words are hard to get out. “I was so angry at my family, at all of it. And I let myself believe she was a part of it. But she wasn’t. She was…collateral damage.”

Maybe I should be smug or jealous, but I’m not. “Then tell her that.”

His eyes flick to mine, wary. “It’s not that simple.”

“Sure it is,” I say, stepping closer, my voice light because I know he needs it. “You go find her. Say, ‘Lily, I was an asshole.’ And then—this is important—you shut up and let her yell at you for a while.”

I lean over the balcony, tossing a stick down to the sand below, testing gravity like a five-year-old. “How did you two typically communicate?”

“I’m very good at this.” He clasps his hands behind his back.

“I produced a report of the economic viability of our pairing.” He lifts his fingers, ticking them off like a grim to-do list. “I made a mathematical model of our entire life; daily, I leave these data packets at her door. I include notes explaining each data module in detail.”

“As someone who’s had a restraining order filed against them,” I say, “please stop doing that.”

“That’s illogical,” he replied. “Relationships are about assurances. I want to make sure she knows that the calculations are in our favor.”

“The word calculations is hot.” I fan myself.

“You are making fun.” He sounds disappointed.

“Okay, no, I’m suggesting you assure her in a different way… Will she be at this Food Science Ball?”

I lean too far over the railing, and suddenly, the terrifying lurch of vertigo hits me. Ben moves faster than I thought possible, his hands clamping onto my hips, pulling me down from the ledge before I fall.

“Am I taking advice from a woman who doesn’t know how gravity works?”

I tug at the hem of my skirt, conscious of how it rode up to my hip. I think of the rumors and how easily he could sink his teeth into me. I have to know if my gut is wrong about Ben.

“Do you want to bite me?” I blurt, instantly regretting the words.

He finally steps back, but not before giving me a long appraising look.

Like he’s really thinking about it. “I’ve given up using my probability matrix on you,” he says, his voice clipped, like he doesn’t trust himself to say more.

He sits back down, but I still feel the pull of him.

Like I’m moving into his orbit whether I wanted to or not.

I straighten, adjusting my skirt again, feeling oddly cold without him near. “They say the machines get special teeth installed,” I say, trying to make a joke of it. “You know, to break through bone and gristle.”

For a second, I think he might laugh, but instead, he opens his mouth. “These are just molars,” he says, holding his jaw open, letting me peer inside like a school nurse.

“So that’s a lie?” I ask, my fingers hovering near his teeth.

“It’s a lie,” he confirms, watching me with the perplexed brow I’m beginning to recognize as his Fawl look.

My index finger tentatively touches his tooth, and I yank it back just as he snaps his mouth shut. I jump, then let out a hoot of laughter. If I didn’t know better, I would think Ben tried to joke with me. But his face is back to flat and unreadable.

“What if I told you there are rumors that your company uses human meat and that the machines eat people from the underground?”