Page 18

TRAZ

T he kids pass out early, worn down from hours of playing and belly-laughing like they didn’t have a care in the world.

Wish I could say the same.

I sit on the floor, back against the cracked wall, legs stretched out, the stitched gash in my side throbbing in time with my heartbeat.

Kelli moves around the room slow, deliberate, picking up stray bits of food wrappers and tossed toys.

The quiet between us isn’t comfortable.

It’s a live thing.

Breathing.

Waiting.

She tosses the last scrap into the trash heap and leans against the opposite wall, arms folded, staring at the ground like it’s got all the answers she’s never gotten.

"You gonna keep runnin'?" she says, voice low but not sharp.

Not angry.

Just tired.

I shake my head.

Slow.

"I’m here."

She laughs, soft and brittle.

"Yeah," she says. "You’re here now."

The way she says it—like it’s almost too late—cuts deeper than any knife.

I don’t say anything.

I just sit there.

Let her have the floor.

She deserves it.

She crosses her arms tighter, biting at her bottom lip, like she’s wrestling herself.

Then she lets out a breath so shaky it hurts to hear.

"You wanna know what it was like after you left?" she asks.

I nod once.

Hard.

She lifts her chin, eyes glittering like broken glass.

"First week, I thought you were dead," she says, voice calm in that terrifying way people sound when they’re too numb to feel. "Or maybe locked up. Tortured. Something."

I grind my molars together, fists curling on my thighs.

"But you weren’t," she says, staring straight through me. "You just left."

I swallow the thousand apologies clawing up my throat.

Because words are cheap.

She keeps going, steady as a blade.

"Petru paraded me around like a trophy after that," she says. "Dressed me up. Showed me off. Whispered to his men about how I was the last gift the great mercenary Traz rejected."

My stomach knots.

She smiles, bitter and hollow.

"Had to stand there and smile while they stared. While they laughed."

The rage that coils inside me is cold.

Deadly.

But I lock it down.

She needs this.

Not my anger.

Not my guilt.

Just the space to bleed out the wounds she’s had to hide too long.

"I found out I was pregnant two months later," she says, voice cracking under the weight of the memory.

Her hand drifts to her stomach, like she’s remembering carrying them inside her.

"Thought about killing myself," she says blunt. "Figured Petru’d kill the babies anyway. Figured it’d be easier if I did it first."

I flinch.

Can't help it.

The thought of her alone, scared, carrying our blood, wanting to end it all.

It shatters something inside me I didn’t even know was still whole.

"But I didn’t," she says, shrugging one shoulder.

Her mouth quirks into something that might be a smile if you squint hard enough.

"I stayed alive out of pure spite," she mutters. "Wasn’t gonna let Petru win."

I breathe out slow, clenching my fists tighter, nails digging into my palms.

"You fought," I say hoarse.

"Damn right I fought," she snaps, finally looking at me. "Fought for them. For me. For whatever scraps of dignity I had left."

Silence stretches out.

Thick.

Heavy.

I feel every inch of it pressing down on my chest.

"And then," she says softer, "Silpha helped me fake my death. Got me out. Got me here."

She sweeps her hand around the busted room.

"This is it, Traz," she says. "The grand empire your babies were born into. Rust. Dirt. Running scared every damn day."

I open my mouth.

Nothing comes out.

Because what the hell do you say to that?

What words could possibly fix the years I let rot away between us?

So I don't say anything.

I just sit there.

Let her see it.

The regret.

The shame.

The broken parts of me laid bare.

She sighs.

Long and rough.

"You wanna know the worst part?" she asks.

I nod once, jaw so tight it feels like it might snap.

"I hated you," she says. "God, I hated you."

Every word is a dagger.

"And I loved you," she says, softer now. "Even when it would’ve been easier to forget you."

Tears shimmer in her eyes, but she blinks them away.

Feisty to the end.

God, I missed her fire.

Her fight.

Her everything.

She pushes off the wall, crossing the small space between us.

Stands over me, arms loose at her sides, jaw trembling.

"I don’t know if I can forgive you," she says, voice raw.

I nod.

"I don’t expect you to," I say.

Her eyes flicker.

Something inside them shifts.

Breaks open.

She crouches down slowly, sitting cross-legged in front of me.

Close enough I can see every tiny scar, every freckle, every crack life carved into her.

We sit there.

No touching.

No false promises.

Just breathing.

Together.

It feels like we’re standing in the ashes of everything we lost.

And maybe, we’ve got enough fight left to build something new.

We sit there in the dim, broken room, breathing the same air, letting the silence settle around us like a new kind of armor.

Different from the sharp-edged silence we used to wear.

This one’s softer.

Warmer.

Hopeful, maybe.

Kelli shifts first, brushing her hair back from her face in a nervous little motion I remember all too well.

She leans in without really meaning to, her knee bumping mine.

She freezes.

I don’t move.

Don’t dare.

I watch her—steady, patient—as she studies me like she’s trying to find the pieces of the man she used to know.

Slowly, like the tide pulling at the sand, she reaches out.

Her fingers brush the side of my face—soft, hesitant.

I close my eyes.

Let it happen.

Let her touch me.

Because gods know I don’t deserve it.

But I’ll take it.

I’ll take anything she’s willing to give.

I open my eyes again.

Find her closer now.

Her breath warm against my mouth.

Her gaze flicks down.

My heart slams hard against my ribs, but I don’t push.

Don’t chase.

Just wait.

She closes the distance.

Her mouth brushes mine—barely a whisper of contact.

Soft.

Testing.

Breaking me open.

I groan low, reaching up, tangling a hand in her hair, pulling her closer.

Kissing her like she’s the only real thing in the goddamn universe.

She kisses me back—hungry and hesitant all at once.

Like she’s fighting herself and losing.

Good.

Because I’m already lost.

Hopelessly, stupidly lost for her.

Always have been.

Always will be.

When she finally pulls back, her forehead rests against mine, both of us breathing hard.

"You staying?" she whispers, voice small and raw.

My fingers tighten gently against the back of her neck.

"I’ll stay," I rasp.

She nods against me, like she’s holding onto that little promise with both hands.

Without another word, she stands, offering me her hand.

I take it.

Of course I take it.

She leads me across the cracked floor, past the kids sleeping sound, past the shattered dreams we've both carried too long.

Into the little back room where she sleeps.

It isn’t much.

Barely a mattress, a few thin blankets.

But when she curls into my side and lets out a soft, shaky breath against my chest...

It feels like the finest place I’ve ever been.

Home.