Page 21

KELLI

W e don’t sleep much after Silpha leaves.

The air’s too thick, too wired, like we’re all waiting for the floor to crack under us.

Traz pulls the busted crate into the center of the room and dumps out everything we’ve got—ammo clips, battered old blasters, a few knives so rusted they’d be more useful for intimidation than killing.

"We gotta be ready," he says, voice low but cutting through the room like a blade.

I nod, grabbing the satchel and pulling out the ration packs, counting them with quick, nervous fingers.

Four days' worth if we stretch it hard.

Seven if we get real desperate.

Aria and Joren hover nearby, their little faces pale and serious.

Traz tosses me a blaster.

I catch it, the weight sinking into my palm like a promise.

"You’re learning today," he says.

I arch an eyebrow at him.

"Figured that out myself, thanks," I mutter, flipping the weapon over, checking the charge.

He smirks—barely—but there’s a flash of pride in his eyes that makes my chest ache.

The quiet settles heavy around us.

Traz shifts beside me, slow and careful, and before I can second-guess it, he slips his arm around my shoulders.

I stiffen, instinct more than intent.

It’s been too long since anyone touched me like this—soft, sure, like I’m something precious and not just another body in a war.

But Traz doesn't push.

He just holds steady, his big hand warm against my upper arm, grounding me.

After a minute, I let myself lean into him.

Let the hard lines of his chest anchor me.

Let the smell of dust and leather and him settle into my lungs.

He presses a kiss into my hair, so soft it damn near undoes me.

Not hunger.

Not desperation.

Just... love.

The real kind.

The kind that stays.

The kind that fights for you even when you're broken into a thousand pieces.

I close my eyes, breathing him in, feeling the slow, steady thud of his heart against my cheek.

I don't feel like I’m fighting alone.

I don't feel like a slave or a fugitive or a ghost clinging to scraps of hope.

I feel like a woman.

A mother.

A mate.

Part of something real and fierce and alive.

A family.

Our family.

I curl my fingers into his shirt, holding on.

And I let myself believe.

Maybe we’re not just surviving anymore.

We’re finally living.

Together.