Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Sometimes, I forget how young we are.

It’s easy to forget, when we’ve fought for the planet for our whole lives and taken down galactic tyrants, when our names are spoken with reverence across half the known galaxy and fear in the other half. When the citizens of Detritus seem to pause and look at us like we really matter.

Like we’re not just kids who had to grow up between war, loss, and hopelessness.

We’re legends now. War heroes. The kind people respect, look up to, admire, even talk about—

But sometimes I catch my reflection in M-Bot’s canopy glass and I look eighteen. I feel eighteen.

And tonight—

Tonight I felt eighteen and angry.

Not at anything important, like the broken systems or the ghosts of the dead or the parts of myself I still don’t understand despite everything.

Just at him.

Jorgen skipped dinner. Again.

And I was going to yell at him.

Not dramatically. Not in a “scream in the middle of a command room” kind of way.

More of a “Jorgen Weight, you are not invincible and if you miss one more meal I’m going to throw your paperwork into the recycler and make sure you’re can’t get it back” sort of way.

So yeah. I was mad.

The corridors of Platform Prime echoed under my boots as I strode past confused pilots and technicians.

I didn’t stop to talk. Didn’t wave. Didn’t even exchange a feeling glance. I was on a mission. A very righteous one. FM had seen him slip out of the mess hall fifteen minutes after sitting down. His tray barely touched. Again. She hadn’t stopped me when I shoved my tray aside and stood. She’d just nodded sagely like she’d already accepted that sometimes—violence was inevitable.

He’d been doing this all week. He’d vanish. Always apologetic. Always ‘I'll be back soon, love you’.

And he never came back.

I knew he wasn’t avoiding me. Not on purpose. That wasn’t Jorgen. But that made it worse, somehow. Because he wasn’t avoiding me—he was avoiding rest.

And I knew why. The post-war restructuring was a nightmare—half the galaxy was still trying to figure out how to govern itself without the Superiority’s boot on its throat, and Jorgen was at the center of it. Not because he wanted to be. Because he was good at it. Because he was Admiral—it was part of his job. Because they trusted him. Because he never, ever said no when someone needed him.

But he was working himself into the ground, and I was done watching him tire himself, done pretending it was fine.

The door to his quarters hissed open when I approached. He hadn’t even locked it. Typical. I stormed inside, brows furrowing and already opening my mouth to let him have it—

And then I stopped.

The words died in my throat, killed by the quiet.

Jorgen was… asleep. Slumped forward on his desk, cheek resting against a stack of crumpled reports. His hair was a disheveled mess of dark curls falling across his face, and his mouth was slightly open—just enough that I could hear the soft rhythm of his breathing over the hum of the lights.

I stared at him. My anger drained out like someone had opened an airlock in my soul, seeping into the floorboards below.

He wasn’t just napping. He had passed out, mid-sentence by the look of it, because the pen was still in his hand, ink trailing off the edge of a half-filled page. The overhead light cast a soft, pale glow across his features, soft with sleep, catching on the faint shadows under his eyes. Shadows that hadn’t gone away since Evensong.

And I—

Stars.

I hadn’t realized how worn out he looked until now. Not sickly. Just… hollowed out. Like someone had scraped small pieces of him away and replaced them with duty and expectation and constant sleepless nights.

Up close, I could see the exhaustion written across his face. There was a tiny crease between his brows, even in sleep, like he’s still thinking, still trying to solve some impossible equation the rest of us don’t even know exists. His fingers twitched once, still curled around the pen.

A cold, half-drunk cup of coffe sat abandoned beside him. The algae ration bar I told him to eat at *breakfast* was still sealed. And I could see the shape of his to-do list glowing faintly on the datapad screen beneath his hand. It just kept going. Line after line. Task after task. Expectation after expectation.

I stepped forward on instinct. Slower now. Like the floor was covered in shards of glass and I’d wandered in by mistake. Doomslug followed me in, but she didn’t chirp or flute ‘Jerkface!’ like she usually did when she saw him. She hyperjumped over to the corner and curled up silently, her frills drooping.

My heart twisted, chest cracking open with sudden wave of emotions that threatened to overwhelm me.

Because he shouldn’t be like this. He shouldn’t be alone with all this weight.

He’s just eighteen. Eighteen years old and already trying to fix the galaxy that burned down around us. A boy who should be out flying, laughing, being a scudding person—not staying up until 0400 hours rewriting policy drafts no one else knows how to handle. He tries so hard to be everything for everyone. Admiral. Diplomat. Shield.
And I—I forget sometimes.

I forget that he’s human. That he breaks, too. That he’s not a statue made of logic responsibility, and diplomacy, no matter how good he is at pretending that he is.

I reached out, slow and tentative, and eased the pen from his fingers. He didn’t stir. His breathing stayed steady. There’s ink on the side of his hand. One of the reports under his arm was wrinkled from the weight of his head.

I wanted to shake him. I wanted to wake him up and yell, What the hell, Jerkface? You’re not a machine. You’re allowed to stop.

But I didn’t. Because that would be cruel. And this—this moment was too fragile to break. Too brittle with the weight of unspoken things.

Instead, I grabbed the thin blanket from the couch and draped it around his shoulders. I smoothened it down gently, letting my fingers linger just a moment too long near his face. His skin was warm. I wanted to touch him. Brush back the hair from his face. Kiss him awake, maybe. But I didn’t.

Because if I did, I might say something. I might whisper things I’m not ready to say aloud. Things like ‘You don’t have to do this alone.
 You’re allowed to rest .
I love you too much to watch you break’.

I stepped back slightly.

My chest ached in that way it does when a scream gets stuck somewhere behind your ribs. I swallowed hard, blinking faster than I should.

I forced in a slow breath, but it caught in my chest like it snagged on something sharp.

But I didn’t cry. I almost did.

Instead, I walked over, dimmed the lights, I sat down on the floor beside him, back against the desk, knees pulled up to my chest. The corner of the table dug into my skull—but it didn’t matter. I was too tired to care. And for a long time, I just sat there. Watching him breathe. Letting the quiet wrap around both of us.

Because if he won’t rest for himself, I’ll make sure he rests for me.

⚔︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ⚔︎

Time bends itself strangely when the war is over. When peace is there, fragile and lingering, but you don’t know what to do with it.

I don’t know how long I sat there, watching the rise and fall of his chest, feeling the slow steady hum of a universe finally at rest around us. But the peace in the room wasn’t peaceful. It was fragile. Like it could shatter with one careless breath.

I tilted my head back, resting it against the desk behind me, the corner pressing deeper into my skull—and closed my eyes.

This is fine.

I’m fine.

I’m just sitting in a quiet room, watching the boy I love sleep on top of thirty-seven pages of strategic debriefs. That’s normal. That’s fine.

Except it’s not. Because the war is over, but he’s still fighting. And I don’t know how to stop him.

I wanted to carry this weight for him. I wanted to help him. I want to pull the galaxy off his shoulders and throw it into a distant sun. But I didn’t know how.

And that—stars, that was the worst part.

Because this was Jorgen. My Jerkface. The boy who used to argue with me about flight patterns and call me “impulsive and reckless” every time I did something mildly dangerous. The boy who kissed me with fire like I was something he’d spent his whole life trying not to hope for.

And he’s so tired.

My eyes drifted away momentarily from his sleeping face and landed on something on the floor near his chair.

A piece of paper. Torn in half.

I didn’t want to look. I didn’t want to scudding know. But my fingers moved before my brain caught up with my actions. I reached forward slowly and picked up the two jagged edges, holding them together like a shattered promise.

The paper was worn, crumpled, and stained with tears—his tears, I realized, the edges smudged and wrinkled like the ghost of something no one wanted to re,ever.

And then, as my eyes skimmed the first few lines—the realization hit me.

It was a eulogy.

My eulogy.

Jorgen had written it. For me.

In case the war had taken me. In case I hadn’t made it back. In case Evensong was the end. In case he had to leave me behind.

The words were neat, careful, like he’d rewritten them a hundred times, trying to get them right. Trying to say all the things he was too afraid to say out loud.

Eulogy for Spensa Nightshade
. Written by Admiral Jorgen Weight. 
Do not file. Personal.
If you're hearing this… then she's gone.
And I don’t know how to begin, because nothing I say will ever be enough to hold the space she filled together.
Spensa Nightshade was the bravest pilot I’ve ever known. Not just because she charged headfirst into danger. But because she did it with fire in her soul and defiance in her gaze. She challenged the universe to do its worst and dared it to try harder. She made us all believe we could be more—more than our fears, more than our bloodlines, more than the wreckage we came from.
She fought for a society that hated her. That challenged her. That tried to make her believe she wasn’t capable of fighting. And yet—she proved them all wrong.
She was reckless, impossible, loud, and infuriating.
She was a nightmare to command.
She was chaos and courage and loyalty wrapped in a very brave, very selfless package.
She was my friend.
She was my wingmate. My partner. My heart.
And I don’t know who I am without her.
I should’ve told her I loved her more.
I shouldn’t have argued with her.
I shouldn’t have let her go alone.
If this war has taught us anything, it’s that we don’t always get to say goodbye. But if I had one more minute—just one more—I’d tell her everything I never said enough.
That I was proud of her. That I loved her more than I ever thought possible. That every time she looked at me like I mattered, like I wasn’t just holding the world together stress and responsibility, I’d believe it.
Because she believed in me.
And now I have to carry that belief forward, somehow, without her.
We’ll go on. We’ll survive. We’ll defeat the Superiority. We’ll build something better.
Because that’s what she’d want. But none of it will ever feel quite right.
Because there should have been more time.
Because I should’ve told her all this while she was still here.
Because, stars help me—

The final line was smudged. Watermarked with a single teardrop that spread the navy ink outward like a tiny supernova.

She was the light we all followed, and though the stars may dim eventually, her fire will never fade.

And that was when my eyes stung. I swallowed hard. My throat tightened, and suddenly all the anger I’d carried down the hallways minutes ago turned to a foul-tasting ash in my mouth.

Jorgen had carried this—this—with him. Alone. The possibility of losing me. The weight of a future without me, written down on a scrap of paper hidden in his office like a secret he wasn’t ready to share.

I wanted to shout. To cry. To rip the paper apart in fury that and to obliterate the fact that he had thought he might lose me. That I might not come back. But I didn’t.

I sat there, holding the torn halves in my hand, the edges rough against my fingers.

And I let the quiet break me a little.

Because the war was over. But the scars? They were still here. In the air between us.
In the things, word, and emotions left unsaid.

I folded the paper carefully and slid it into my pocket.

When I looked back at him—still asleep on his reports—I felt something fragile and fierce bloom in my chest.

Love. And fear. And hope. Maybe even a sense of protection.

All tangled together in one, tight knot that refused to untangle.

Chapter Text

The war was over.

The war was over.

And I had an agonizing burn on my wrist from a boiling kettle because, apparently, ending an intergalactic conflict doesn’t make you immune to being clumsy while trying to make your first cup of tea in your own kitchen in... stars, how long had it been?

The kettle had hissed obnoxiously. I had grabbed it without thinking. I’d been pouring the water into the cup like I’d seen people do—like humans did, instead of pilots hardened by war—and the cap hadn’t clicked shut right. The spout hissed, then screamed, and suddenly my hand was engulfed in pain.

I hadn’t said anything. Instead, I’d swore.

Loudly.

So loud that Doomslug had fluted in alarm and had almost flung herself off the counter in surprise.

By the time I’d run cold water over it and slapped a towel around my wrist, the skin was already puffing up—tight, hot, tingling at the edges. Not melted or blistering, thank the stars, but the kind of burn that made everything else in the universe vanish for a minute while your brain focused solely on how much it hated existing.

I’d fought delvers. I’d faced down Superiority ships and hyperjumped into realms and dimensions that shattered minds. I’d seen my friends bleed and pilots die.

And yet here I was, biting the inside of my cheek because a stupid kettle had decided I wasn’t war-hardened enough.

Now I sat at the edge of our kitchen table—one foot up on the rung of the chair, the other tapping softly against the tile—and my mother was quietly, carefully wrapping a length of soft gauze around my wrist.

The light above us buzzed faintly, casting a warm, golden glow across the counters and cabinets, some of which were still slightly splintered from all those years ago. We never bothered to fix them. They felt… honest, I guess. Like scars the house had earned.

The burn stung angrily, discomfort pricking at my skin like a thousand alcohol counted needles. Surface level. Blush-red, angry, hot.

But despite the pain— it was nothing compared to what we’d just lived through.

And still—I couldn’t stop staring at her hands. The way they moved. The way they didn’t shake. How deliberate she was, how focused. Her fingers smelled like antiseptic. The edge of her sleeve brushed my arm. The fabric was coarse, and smelled like dust and home.

“I told you,” she said softly, “you’re supposed to let the water cool for thirty seconds before pouring it.”

“I forgot,” I muttered, wincing slightly as the cool sting of antiseptic coated the burn.

“You remembered how to pilot a starship along with a sentient AI. I figured you could remember a kettle.”

I huffed out a breath, almost a laugh—but not quite.

She tied off the end of the wrap gently, smoothing it down with her thumb.

It was quiet for a few beats. Not an awkward silence. Just a soft one. Like the world was still recovering from all its noise.

“You don’t have to keep holding it all in, you know,” she said eventually. Her voice wasn’t sharp. Wasn’t prying. Just… there. Steady, in the way that only she could be.

I didn’t respond.

I didn’t need to. She knew. We both knew. I’d been pushing forward since Evensong ended. Since we’d realized how many pilots we had lost? Since I got Jorgen and my friends back. Since I stood in front of almost the entire population of Igneous and told them they were safe now.

Since I flew again, just to feel like myself.

But in the quiet moments—in these strange, slow hours of peace—I didn’t know where to put myself. Or the weight I still carried.

She ran her hand gently down the bandage once more.

The pain pulsed steadily under my skin, a heartbeat of agony. Every time she wrapped the gauze around it tighter, brushing the edges of the burn, the sensation spiked. Sharp, then dull, then sharp again. It itched already, but not the kind of itch you could scratch. No, this was the kind that lived deeper—under skin, under scars, buried somewhere between nerve endings and memory. And I hated it.

Then she looked up at me, eyes soft. Tired, but bright. Her hair was streaked with a little more silver than I remembered, and I suddenly hated that I hadn’t seen it happen.

“You were just a girl,” she said. “And now you’re… not.”

I blinked. My throat tightened.

She didn’t look away, her gaze locked on mine and unwavering.

“He’d be proud of the woman you’ve become.”

I froze. My entire body—rigid, spine straight, shoulders drawn tight as a spring being pulled beyond its elastic limit. It was like the words hit a lead weight behind my ribs.

The kitchen was silent except for the almost inaudible tick of the clock and the faint hiss of the kettle cooling behind us. I stared down at my wrist, at the bandage already staining slightly with that yellowish heat-bruise color burns made, like the skin had given up trying to hold itself together and finally tore.

Proud. My father.

or a long time, I didn’t even realize I was holding my breath. Not until my lungs started to ache with it.

And then I felt it.

The unwanted, unwelcome sting behind my eyes.

The creeping, sudden heat—not like the burn, but inside. Crawling up my throat, making it tight. Making it hard to swallow. A pressure that wasn’t even tangible but still felt like it could twist metal.

And still, I said nothing.

I couldn’t say anything.

If I opened my mouth, it would fall out—all of it. Not just the tears. The rage, the confusion, the grief I’d swallowed down for so long it had begun to feel like part of me. The guilt of wanting to believe he was good all those year’s ago.

My father, who’d been killed before I ever really knew who he was.

My mother just stood there.

She didn’t reach for me. Didn’t press. Maybe she knew. Maybe she felt the shift in the air the same way I did—like it had grown heavier, like we were suddenly standing on the edge of something vast and quiet and ancient.

So I did the only thing I could.

I nodded.

Too fast. Too sharp.

Like a reflex instead of a choice. Because if I paused—if I lingered—the tears would come. And they wouldn’t stop.

I didn’t want her to see that.

Not yet.

The bandage itched. My wrist throbbed. My jaw ached from how tightly I was clenching it.

She looked at me then, eyes soft in a way that made it worse. Because she meant it.

She wasn’t just being kind. She believed it.

That my father would be proud of me.

Of everything I’d become. The pilot. The Cytonic weapon. The girl who flew into the Nowhere.

The one who came back.

And that was the moment I almost lost it.

Right there, in the kitchen, surrounded by steam and silence and the scent of antiseptic.

Because I wanted to believe it too.

So badly.

And because the part of me that still felt like a little girl—angry and confused and desperate for answers—had never stopped waiting for him to come back. To say it himself.

I blinked fast. Too fast. Felt my nose sting, my chest hitch. I dug my nails into my good palm behind my back, the pain grounding myself like a lifeline. Pain for pain. Burn for burn.

I didn’t cry.

But my body thought about it. Every cell. Every breath.

Almost.

Until a small, completely agonizing inch from my arm drew my attention away.

Not the normal kind of itch, either. That deep, maddening, nerve-deep kind that made you want to tear the whole thing off and shove your entire arm into a bucket of ice. The heat was still there beneath the wrap—trapped, radiating upward. The skin felt tight, stretched too thin across muscle and bone, raw and irritating.

I curled my fingers into a fist, just to test it. Pain zipped up my forearm, fast and white-hot, like lightning on a dry plain, setting everything on fire.

“Don’t do that,” my mother said without looking.

“It’s not that bad,” I muttered, lying instantly, grateful for the change of subject.

She raised an eyebrow, fixing me with that knowing glare only mothers and flight instructors ever seem to master. “Second-degree, at least. You’ve probably got a blister forming under there already.”

I frowned. “Seriously? From *steam*?”

“Boiling water doesn’t care about what state it’s in,” she said, voice dry. “It’ll still melt your skin off.”

Fair point.

The ache settled in, dull and constant, pulsing like a second heartbeat I didn’t want. Every time I moved, it stung. Every time the cool kitchen air shifted against my skin, it flared. That thin, white gauze felt like a lie—like armor made of paper, trying to protect my damaged skin but clearly not doing enough.

I looked down at it again, resisting the urge to peel the gauze back and see the damage. As if staring at it would explain why it hurt so much. Or maybe because… I didn’t want to deal with invisible wounds anymore. Grief. Pain. Emptiness. If I was going to feel this much, I wanted proof.

“You should rest,” my mother said softly. She picked up the roll of unused gauze, her fingers winding it back into a clean circle. “It’s late.”

I should’ve argued. I should’ve made some crack about how I was used to sleeping in the cockpit of a starship with my soul merged with a delver’s. But the truth was…

The ache wasn’t just in my wrist anymore.

It was in my chest. The words. The silence.

Like the moment the adrenaline ran out and everything you’d been holding at bay came crashing down. Your grief, your fear, your victories. Your trauma. Your losses. Especially those.

My hand throbbed again. Sharp. Real.

“Do you think,” I said suddenly, surprising even myself, “that it’ll scar?”

She paused. Looked at me.

“If it does,” she said, “then you’ll wear it. Like you wear all the rest.”

I looked at her—really looked at her—and saw it in her eyes: she meant the words. She wasn’t talking about burns anymore. And stars help me, I wasn’t either.

The silence stretched again, but it wasn’t empty. It was full. Of steam. Of pain. Of pride. Of everything unsaid.

She stepped forward and pressed a kiss to my temple.

“You're home now, Spensa,” she whispered. “You don't have to be a weapon anymore.”

My throat closed once more.

I didn’t mean for it to. It just… did. Like something inside me had been pulled taut for too long and now—now that the war was over, now that my mom was here, now that I wasn’t dodging debris or fighting Krell or dragging my body across another scudding dimension—that thing was unraveling too fast for me to catch.

I tried to say ‘thank you’. ‘Or I know’. Or maybe ‘I don’t know how to stop’. But if I opened my mouth, I was going to cry. Not just from the pain of the burn—which still throbbed, vicious and hot under the bandage—but from the way her voice had softened. The way she said those words. The way she said he’d be proud.

My father.

The coward. The traitor. The hero. The man I’d chased through stories and silence and a whole bundle of lies.

My mind zoned back into the words. “He’d be proud of the woman you’ve become.”

I hadn’t thought of him in weeks. Maybe even longer. And now, hearing her say that—he’d be proud of me?

It had hit somewhere I didn’t know was still raw.

So I nodded. Once. Maybe too fast. I didn’t trust my voice.

She didn’t push.

Just set the kettle back on its hook and moved about the kitchen in that calm, familiar rhythm I’d forgotten I missed. I stood there with my wrist wrapped and my jaw clenched and my eyes burning. Not crying. Not yet. But close.

So close it hurt.

The kind of almost-tears that made your chest tight and your vision blur around the edges. The kind that filled your lungs but couldn’t find the exit.

Stars, maybe she was right. Maybe I *did* need rest.

The kettle hissed again. The bandage itched.

And I breathed.

Not deep. Not easy. But enough to hold myself together.

For now.

Chapter Text

The gates were open this time.

That alone felt strange.

Alta Base had always been closed to me, at first. Shut doors. Locked hearts. Walls I wasn’t allowed to cross—not because I wasn’t capable, but because of who I was. Because of my name. My father’s legacy.

And now, here I was. Walking straight in.

No guards. No snarling Commanders. No shame curling in my gut like a parasite. Just me, Jorgen, and the others, wandering in through the front like we belonged.

Because we did.

“We should have brought Doomslug,” I murmured as the base came into view, closer and closer each second. “She deserves to see this place one last time.”

Jorgen let out a soft laugh beside me. “She’s resting. I don’t think she’d forgive you for
dragging her out of her basket for nostalgia.

We walked the path leading up to the base. Blue-gray rocks crunching under our boots, the air clearer than I remembered—no smoky haze, no distant clank of machinery or klaxon alarms. Just wind and sky and faint footsteps behind mine.

It looked smaller than I remembered.

Everything did.

Or maybe… I was just bigger now.

Not in size, obviously—I still didn’t pass for average height when I was wearing boots with soles thick enough to crush skulls—but something in my chest felt too large for these halls. Like I’d outgrown the walls. The ceilings. The echo of my own boots on the floor.

The others spread out behind me, footsteps soft, respectful. FM whispered something to Kimmalyn, and I heard Nedd let out a low whistle. Arturo trailed behind them, his expression unreadable.

The doors opened with that same hiss. Same hydraulics. Same faint ozone scent—like metal, fuel, and history.

We walked in.

And I stopped.

It was exactly how I remembered. But… quieter. More peaceful.

We stepped into the old pilot bunks, and I could still see it—the chaos. The time FM and Kimmalyn bought me soup. My cot crammed into the corner once I was finally allowed to sleep here. Morning drills and midnight confessions and the hum of people learning how not to die.

It was quiet now. Frozen untouched.

No duffel bags. No boots. No belongings scattered around. Just silence.

I moved toward the flight room on my own.

I didn’t plan to. My feet just took me there.

The door creaked open with a reluctant sigh.

And suddenly I was back.

The metal floor under my boots. The simulators, all arranged neatly in the centre. The chairs at the back of the room. The desk where Cobb controlled the sims. The air still carried the ghost of oil and ozone and that strange scent of high-strung nerves.

I stepped into the center. Right where Cobb used to stand.

I could still see him—Cobb, when he was out flight instructor. His arms crossed. That unreadable, stern expression. The glimmer of a smile he thought we couldn’t see when we pulled something incredible off.

I turned slowly, drinking it in.
I felt the burn in my throat before I noticed the weight in my chest. It came out of nowhere. That ache. That throb of something too much to name. Grief, maybe. Or longing. Or the sharp, impossible knowledge that we survived.

That we made it.

Hurl wasn’t here.

Morningtide wasn’t here.

Even Bim, awkward and sweet and too fast to die, wasn’t here.

But I was. We were.

I stepped up to the front of the room and I stood there, still as the air, and looked out the hallway at Skyward Flight, still being idiots, as my mind wandered back to the past.

This was the room where I became a pilot. Where Skyward Flight became mine.

Where I got my first kill. My first loss. Where I learned to ‘lead’.

And now it was empty. Of course it had been used to train new cadets after our flight graduated… but still.

Empty. Like it was waiting for something that wouldn’t come again.

I swallowed. Hard. Walked back inside.

There it was again—that tightness behind my eyes. That dangerous swell of memory and longing and too much everything. My vision blurred for just a second, and I blinked fast, angry at myself for it. What the scud was *wrong* with me these days? Nearly crying over a room? Nearly crying over a few words? Nearly crying over seeing Jorgen asleep on reports?

I didn’t cry. Not here. Not over a room.

But stars, I almost did.

Because for a second, it was like I was seventeen again, full of fire and hunger and fury.

Shouting at Jorgen. Laughing with my friends. Staring down the barrel of a Krell dogfight and daring the world to tell me I couldn’t win.

And now? Now the war was over.

The world was mine.

And I didn’t know what to do with that.

The door creaked behind me, slow and careful, cutting though the haze of my thoughts like a blade unsheathed.

Jorgen stepped in. Quiet. Careful. And his silence was like gravity. Like he felt it too.

All of it.

I turned and looked toward the back row. The spot where I used to sit. Where he sat.

Where Kimmalyn cheered and Nedd cracked jokes and we were all just kids pretending we weren’t already dying.

I blinked too fast.

He didn’t say anything. Just came to stand beside me, shoulder brushing mine.

We looked around the room together, eyes drifting slowly over the sims, over the walls—like we could revisit the past with nothing but our gaze.

“Feels smaller, doesn’t it?” I said, voice uncharacteristically small. Scud.

“It’s not,” he said. “You just got bigger.”

I scoffed, but it was weak. My hands were clenched so hard my nails dug into my palms, leaving fours crescent shaped marks on the skin. The bandages from that damn steak burn still wrapped my wrist. It throbbed painfully. Or maybe that was just my heart.

I looked down at my feet, at my boots—scuffed with dust from walking all the way here. And whispered, “I thought I’d feel victorious.”

Jorgen didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.

We stood there for a while longer. In the quiet. In the weight of the ghosts we’d left behind.

I didn’t cry. Of course I didn’t. But my throat hurt.

Jorgen shifted beside me, arms crossed, eyes distant. But his hand brushed mine.

Not a full grab—just a touch. Gentle. Solid. There. The warmth of it anchored me.

That’s when the door creaked open again, and FM poked her head in. “You two dramatically reminiscing without us?”

I turned my head slightly to look at her. “Maybe.”

“You better not be crying,” Nedd added, stepping in behind her. “We made a no-crying pact. Remember?”

“I don’t remember agreeing to that,” Kimmalyn said serenely, trailing her fingers along one of the old chairs. “I cry on principle.”

Arturo ducked through the doorway last, arms folded behind his back like he was trying not to touch anything. “Honestly, I’m just surprised this place hasn’t collapsed into dust and trauma.”

“It’s definitely full of trauma,” FM muttered.

“I said what I said,” Arturo replied.

They wandered in like they belonged there. Because they did. Skyward Flight, all of us—slightly older now. Scarred. But not broken.

We circled the room together. Touched chairs, scraped fingers along control panels. Laughed, softly, at half-remembered mistakes.

Someone—probably Nedd—brought up the time I threw my helmet at the wall panel because I failed a maneuver I used to nail with my eyes closed thrice when we were practicing for fun on the sims after we graduated.

“You dented the panel,” he said, grinning.

“That panel insulted me first,” I muttered.

“You muttered something about it conspiring against you,” FM added.

“It was obviously metaphorical,” I said. “A healthy coping mechanism.”

“You also forgot to strap in,” Arturo said, raising an eyebrow and titling his head. “How do you forget that?”

“…Traitors,” I murmured.

“Skyward Flight,” Kimmalyn said sweetly, “is love.”

“Skyward Flight is rude,” I replied, but my lips tugged upward at the corners anyway.

The laughter faded after a few moments, like a ripple in still water. We all stood there, in the echo of it. Eyes drawn back to our old simulators. To the walls. To the ghost-version of ourselves still lingering in the corners of the room.

It wasn’t heavy like it had been. But it wasn’t exactly light either. Just… true.

“Hey,” FM said softly. “We made it. Through the war. Trough the Superiority’s reign. We made it.”

And we had. Stars, we had. Through all of it.

I caught Jorgen’s gaze.

His expression softened, eyebrows relaxing and pupils dilating.

He held out his hand towards me, slowly, offering wordless comfort I didn’t know I needed.

I didn’t hesitate. I took it. Fingers laced. Palm to palm. Warm and steady and real.

He tugged me slightly closer, until our shoulders brushed again. Then closer still, until his arm wrapped around my waist, until I was tucked into his side.

I let myself lean into his embrace, the weight on my shoulders bleeding—just a little.

Because here, in this old, echoing room, I didn’t need to be the brave one. Not for a moment.

He pressed his forehead against my temple and whispered, “You okay?”

I nodded. Too fast.

His fingers ran through my hair, the movement subtle but real. “You sure?”

I hesitated. The burn on my wrist flared again—dull and deep and insistent. Like it remembered too.

“I don’t know,” I said honestly. “It just… I forgot how much I missed this. Not just the base. All of it. Who we were.”

“We’re still us,” he murmured.

“Are we?” I asked, glancing up at him briefly. “I look around and… I don’t feel like that girl anymore.”

He pulled back just enough to look at me. “Spensa,” he said softly, “you’re still the girl who fought harder than anyone. You’re the girl who survived the Nowhere, who faced down the Superiority, who told the entire galaxy to go scud itself.”

I choked on a laugh.

“And,” he added, kissing my forehead gently, “you’re the girl I love. Then, now, always.”

And then I looked at him. Really looked at him.

His eyes were the kind of brown you didn’t notice at first—like rich soil on Evershore after the rain.

But near the center, just by his pupils, there were flecks of gray. Almost silver. Like someone had taken starlight and pressed it into his gaze, hoping it might stay.

They were tired. Stars, he was tired. The kind of tired that didn’t come from sleepless nights, but from carrying too much for too long alone.

And still, when he looked at me… He softened. Like I was something worth softening for. It didn’t make sense—how one person could look so commanding in a room full of command chairs and yet still look at me like I was the most important thing in the galaxy.

My chest ached. But not the bad kind.

The kind that comes when you realize, somehow, you made it through. That you’re not alone, no matter how much time you spent pretending, convincing yourself that you were.

“I love you too,” I said.

Then—just because I could—I kissed him.

Right there. In the middle of the flight room. Where Cobb used to yell at us, where Jorgen once thought I was the most annoying thing to ever enter his well-ordered world.

Where I’d once dreamed of the sky, and then claimed it.

We kissed like we had all the time in the world. Because we finally did.

And behind us, the others began to quietly file out, giving us the moment.

Skyward Flight—still rude, still loyal.

And when we broke apart, I rested my head on his shoulder. Let the silence press around us—not heavy, not painful. Just full. Of memory. Of breath. Of things we didn’t have to say anymore.

“Spensa,” FM called gently, like she didn’t want to interrupt but also did want to ruin the moment because, well, she was FM.

“You guys done?” Nedd said cheerfully. “Because I was thinking we should totally break into the mess hall and see if the vending machines still work.”

“There’s probably just expired algae ration bars in there by now,” Arturo muttered.

“Oh stars,” FM groaned, “he’s going to eat it anyway.”

“Of course I am,” Nedd said. “Science demands sacrifice.”

I let out a breath that was mostly a laugh, turning to him. “You’re going to regret that in about twenty minutes.”

“Possibly,” he replied, already halfway to the door. “But my legacy will live on.”

“I’m not saving you from this,” FM added, following him.

“That’s fair,” Kimmalyn said, trailing behind them as Arturo rolled his eyes for what looked like the hundredth time in the last twenty four hours.

Jorgen nudged me. “Come on,” he whispered. “Let’s go stop him from giving himself food poisoning. Again.”

“I’m not stopping anything,” I said. “I’m just going to mock him after.”

“Fair.”

We trailed the others out of the flight room. I glanced back, just once, watching the light slant across the floor and catch the silver glint of the pin of the metallic floor.

I didn’t cry.

But stars, I almost did.

Then I turned, hand in Jorgen’s, and walked out of Alta Base.

But I didn’t feel empty.

Because this wasn’t where it ended. This was where I began.

And we reached the doors, hissing softly to let us through—I realized something.

We might be leaving, for now—but part of me would always still be flying here.

Chapter Text

I tapped the screen with muscle memory more than thought. A small hum vibrated under my fingertips as the datapad lit up, projecting the flight schedule into the air. I barely looked at it—I already knew what it would say. But the ritual was so ingrained into me, I did it anyway.

Nothing.

No missions. No scouting assignments. No debris falls. No patrol rotations or recon check-ins. Just a blank column where there should’ve been a list of tasks, color-coded for urgency.

I stared at it for a long moment. Longer than I meant to, eyes narrowed and focused on the blank screen. The blinking cursor felt like it was mocking me.

I wasn't used to this kind of quiet. The war had ended—really ended—weeks ago. The last Krell fleet had vanished like smoke, the Superiority’s grip broken, the Delvers appeased,, and the Nowhere stable. The galaxy, as far as anyone could tell, was finally at peace.

Which meant I was, technically, off-duty. Free. I hated it.

I didn’t say anything as I tuned away from my datapad, exited my quarters, and made my way to the hangar—my boots echoing too loudly in the almost empty corridor. A few engineers were still around, laughing quietly over a toolkit near the back, their uniforms half-unzipped and grease-stained. Relaxed. Like people who weren’t waiting for the next horror to claw its way through the debris field.

“Morning,” one of them said, tossing me a wave.

I nodded without replying. I wasn’t trying to be rude—I just couldn’t find my voice.

And then a familiar voice called out from behind a half-disassembled acclivity ring.

“Hey, Spin.”

I blinked. Looked up.

Rodge stood, wiping his hands on a rag, fingers smudged with something black and metallic. His safety goggles were pushed up onto his forehead, hair sticking up in disheveled red tufts.

“I thought that was you,” he said, stepping over some spare parts. “You doing okay?”

I hesitated. Stupid question. Great question.

“I’m not malfunctioning,” I offered uselessly. “I guess.”

He gave me a long, pointed look. “So that’s a no.”

I shrugged. “There’s nothing on the board. No patrols. No missions. I checked twice.”

“Yeah,” he said, quieter now. “Kind of weird, isn’t it?”

I nodded. My arms crossed. My jaw clenched. I felt like a ship with nowhere to go.

“I mean, weird in a *good* way,” Rig added. “But… yeah. I get it.”

He didn’t say more than that. Didn’t press. Just stood there with his goggles on his forehead and that look in his eyes—one that said he knew. Not the full weight of it.

But enough.

“Where’s M-Bot?” he asked.

“Landing pad. I’m taking him up.”

He smiled, not quite as wide as usual. “Tell him I said he still owes me a favor. And don’t go hyperjumping into any mysterious anomalies.”

I managed a small, pathetic laugh. “You take the fun out of everything.”

“Someone has to. You get enough chaos from the rest of Skyward Flight.”

I looked down at my gloves, flexed my fingers.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” I said quietly. “I’m just… flying.”

Rig didn’t laugh. Didn’t mock. Didn’t speak. Just nodded. Just let me keep going.

“I thought… I don’t know. I thought there’d always be something. Something to fight. Something to protect. And now I feel like a rusting drone in storage. Useless.”

Rig tilted his head. “You know what we did with the Krell drones after the war?”

“Scrapped them?”

“Nope. Took them apart. Learned what worked. What didn’t. Used them to build new stuff. Better stuff.”

He nudged the stabilizer with his foot. “You’re not done, Spensa. You’re just… in the middle of a systems overhaul.”

I stared at him for a moment. Then burst out laughing. “That was the scudding nerdiest metaphor I’ve ever heard.”

“Good,” he said. “I work hard to maintain my brand.”

There was a beat of silence between us—soft, familiar.

Then I asked, quieter, “Do you ever feel like the war was the only time you knew exactly what you were for?”

Rig looked down at his dust covered boots. “All the time.”

He gave a half-smile, almost sad. “But maybe that’s the point. We weren’t meant to be weapons forever. We survived. So now we figure out what else we can be.”

That sat heavy in my chest. But not exactly in a bad way.

“I should go,” I said after a moment, rising to my feet.

Rig nodded, already grabbing a wrench. “You’ll figure it out. Eventually.”

Then he smiled at me—small, familiar, caring—and turned back to his workbench.

Maybe his words did help—just a little. But nothing could dissolve the constant, heavy weight on my shoulders. And I hated that.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆

I didn’t realize how fast I was walking until the doors slid open and cool air hit my face, sending my hair flying backwards.

The halls of Platfrom Prime were too quiet. Not tense, not alert—just quiet.

My boots echoed against the floor. I could still hear the place as it used to be, how many memories—good and bad—flooded every inch of this platform.

The hangar lights flickered on as I stepped inside. Still massive. Still gleaming. But empty. The crews had been reassigned. Half the starfighters sat in standby, like slumbering beasts with no battles left to wake them.

I didn’t belong in an office. I didn’t belong behind a desk like Jorgen- even if. , signing reports and coordinating peace talks and being diplomatic. I didn’t know what I belonged to anymore, but it wasn’t this.

And yet my feet still knew the way.

Every step toward M-Bot felt heavier. Like gravity was trying to convince me to turn back.

Maybe it was right. But I kept walking.

M-Bot sat in the far corner, sleek and still. No one had touched him. Not since the last mission. Not since the war ended.

I ran a hand along his hull. Cool metal, dustless. Waiting. I touched it absently, fingers trailing over the curve of his wing.

“Wanna go up?” I asked softly.

He didn’t answer right away. Then: “You know, I’ve been thinking a lot about philosophical implications of the silence recently, and I—“

“Just fly with me,” I said. Stars—the last thing I needed was to hear a three thousand word long analysis of ‘silence’ and its impacts.

“Aye aye, Captain Existential Crisis,” he said with what could only be described as fond sarcasm. “Do you want to mope in silence or listen to depressing human music?”

“Silence,” I said, climbing into the cockpit.

The canopy sealed with a hiss. I let my hands move without thought—straps, helmet, the control panel. Familiar. Comforting. I hadn’t realized how much I’d needed the routine until I was back in it.

“Stars,” I whispered. “I don’t even know why I’m here.”

Still, I didn’t care. Because I didn’t need a reason. I just needed the sky.

Then, with a quiet sigh and the noise of the thrusters activating—we launched.

The platform fell away beneath us, a smudge of silver against the vastness of Detritus’s debris-laden sky.

It was early—the skylights were still considerably dim, bathing everyone in a pale white glow. Light caught on the remains of the old space debris and ship remains, scattered and half-dismantled now, like someone had taken apart a very complex puzzle and forgotten how to rebuild it.

I rose higher and higher, above the debris, then let M-Bot level out. No fancy maneuvers. No high-G turns or dodges or loops. Just… flying at Mag-5. Not exactly slow, but definitely steady.

It should’ve felt like freedom. This was the thing I’d always wanted—peace. Victory. A galaxy where I wasn’t clawing for breath between every scudding heartbeat.

So why did I feel so… empty?

I toggled the comm out of instinct. “Skyward Ten. Callsign: Spin,” I said.

Nobody answered. Nobody except silence.

Of course it did. There was no mission. No flight. Just me, alone, with nothing to fight, and no one on the other end of the line.

I closed my eyes for a moment. What am I, if I’m not fighting?

I thought of my father. Of his impact on the name I carried. I thought of being that girl in the cavern, hunting rats for some much needed income, desperate to prove herself, burning with fury and stubborn pride. Of the first time I flew a real starfighter. The adrenaline, the terror, the purpose.

That purpose had filled every inch of me. I'd been a weapon, sharp and singular, pointed toward a goal I didn’t know how to live without.

Now?

Now I was just… drifting. A useless weapon, blunt and purposeless.

“You okay?” M-Bot asked, softly this time.

I didn’t answer.

My chest ached. Not physically—just a pressure, like something pushing outward from the inside. I but the inside of my cheek so hard I tasted blood. I wasn’t going to cry. Not here. Not over nothing.

Because it wasn’t nothing. I knew that.

It was peace. It was survival. It was a future.

It just didn’t feel like mine yet. Not with this feeling of worthlessness. Not with Jorgen barely getting any time to rest. Not with Alta Base—calm and silent, without anybody barking orders or cadets to train.

I let us maneuver through the debris, ignoring the throb of the burn on my wrist, the stars blinking above the glass of the cockpit—distant, burning, and endless.

And I almost cried.

Almost.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆

The landing was smooth. Too smooth.

I touched down without a single tremor, not even a bump, the weight of M-Bot settling down onto the platform like a sigh. He powered down with uncharacteristic quiet. No snark. No sarcastic remark. No comment about Mushrooms. No dramatic exit music. Just silence, like he understood the current complexity of my emotions.

I popped the canopy and jumped down before it had fully opened, my boots hitting the metal with a dull thud. I didn’t stop moving. Didn’t think. I could still feel the ache from earlier—the pressure that had curled in my chest like a fist with no one to punch.

So I walked. Walked, as if the sound of my footsteps would somehow drawn away the hurricane inside my head.

Not towards my quarters. Not towards the mess hall. Not towards the Flight meeting room. Just… away. Somewhere I didn’t have to be anything. Someone.

And of course he was there. Of course.

I turned the corner and nearly walked straight into him—tall, uniformed, sleep-deprived-looking Jorgen. His uniform jacket was unbuttoned at the collar. collar. He had that slight crease between his brows, the one he probably thought made him look serious instead of tired. His datapad and a small stack of reports was tucked under one arm, and his other hand came up slightly, like he was about to reach for me. Instinctive.

“Spensa,” he said, his voice quiet, laden with an undertone I wasn’ prepared to hear. Like a question. Like he’d seen something in my face and wasn’t sure if he was even allowed to ask.

I didn’t answer. I didn’t even look at him.

I brushed past, shoulder grazing his arm, and kept walking. Not fast. Just steady. Deliberate.

He didn’t follow. Not immediately. I could feel him watching me, though, like a slight, insistent presence pressed against my back.

“Hey,” he said after a heartbeat. “Are you—”

I waved a hand behind me. Not a real wave. More like a *don’t*.

Because I didn’t trust my voice.

Didn’t trust that if I opened my mouth, it wouldn’t break apart into something shaky and fragile and stupid. Didn’t trust that if I looked him in the eyes—those grey-flecked brown eyes, that held a kind of love and quiet strength I’d never find anywhere else—I wouldn’t unravel right there in the hallway like a badly tied knot.

Because he’d see it. He always did, anyway. And I wasn’t ready to talk about how the silence in the sky felt louder than any battle ever did.

So I walked. Again.

One foot in front of the other. Deliberate. Like I still had somewhere to go. Like I wasn’t completely lost in a world that had finally stopped spinning.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆

I found the farthest corner of the hangar and sat down hard, legs crossed, arms folded tight across my chest like they might hold me together if I just pressed hard enough. The stars outside the glass, beyond the debris field curved into infinity.

Empty. Cold. Beautiful. Still.

I hated them a little for that. Because my world didn’t feel still.

No more missions. No more war.

And somehow—I felt more hollow than I ever had durning any battle.

The silence pressed in again—heavy and aching. I didn’t even have M-Bot in my head to distract me. He’d gone quiet too, as if he knew. As if even *he* didn’t know what to say.

What was I supposed to do? What was I, if not fighting? If not flying with a purpose sharp as a newly forged blade? I had dreamed of freedom—earned it—but now that it was here, it didn’t feel like flying. It felt like falling.

I don’t know how long I sat there. Long enough for the cold of the metal floor to seep through my pants. Long enough for my arms to start trembling—not from chill, but from the effort of staying locked up so tight.

The door hissed open behind me, the noise cutting through the heavy silence of the room like a whip.

I didn’t look. I didn’t even need to. The sound of his footsteps alone was enough to identify who it was.

Slow. Hesitant. Familiar.

Jorgen. Of course.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just… came to stand a few feet away. Gave me the choice to speak or not. I didn’t.

Eventually, I heard him sigh. “You know, when I was a kid, I used to stare at these stars and think the hardest thing I’d ever have to do was survive an intergalactic war.”

I didn’t move.

He sat down beside me, close enough that I could feel his presence, his warmth—but not touching me. Not yet. Just… there.

“And now I’m eighteen, and we’ve survived an intergalactic war, and I don’t even know how to cook without burning it.”

That almost made me smile. Almost being the keyword because—well—I didn’t.

He turned his head toward me, his voice quiet. “You didn’t answer when I called you earlier. You just walked away.”

I stared forward, my eyes fixated at a random spot on the floor. “I didn’t want to talk.”

“I know,” he said, gently. “But I do.”

He waited. Always giving me space, this boy. This man. This heartbreakingly patient (most of the time), determined idiot I somehow fell in love with.

“I checked the schedule today,” I whispered. “Out of habit.”

He was silent.

“There was nothing,” I continued, voice small even to my own ears. “No missions. No threats. No drills. Just… blank space. And I realized… that’s it. It’s over. We don’t have to fight anymore.” I paused. My throat ached. “But I don’t know what to do with that.”

Jorgen looked down. “Yeah.”

“Don’t ‘yeah’ me,” I snapped, the words too sharp, too sudden, harsher than I intended. “You’re always good at this. At planning. At moving on. You’ve got your command, your reports, your wine-drinking war council meetings with other diplomats. But me? I only know how to fight, Jorgen. I only know how to fly. I don’t know who I am if there’s nothing to fight for.”

He didn’t even flinch. He just looked at me, steady and calm, like he was bracing against an insignificant turbulence.

“I think,” he said, the words carefully exiting his lips, “that you’re not giving yourself credit for everything you are.”

I clenched my jaw, trying to keep my voice level. “Don’t say something inspiring. I swear to stars, if you give me some sort of inspirational speech—”

“I’m not,” he said. “I’m just telling you what I see.”

I turned to him then. Not because I wanted to. Because I had to. Because my chest was too tight, my hands too cold, and the silence in my ears too loud.

He looked back at me like I was the only thing in the universe that made sense.

“You’re Spensa Nightshade,” he said, voice low and sure. “You’re a survivor. A daughter. A pilot. An absolute menace, yet still the bravest person I’ve ever met. You don’t have to be in a cockpit to matter. You don’t have to be at war to be you.”

I looked away, my gaze falling to the ground. “It doesn’t feel like enough.”

He was quiet for a moment. Then, he reached out—very gently, as if I’d splinter if he moved too fast—and took my hand. I let him.

“It’s okay not to know what comes next,” he said. “We’ve lived our entire lives on the edge of annihilation. Now we have to learn to live in the quiet. And I know that’s harder than any battle we’ve fought.”

I bit the inside of my cheek. Hard. Hard enough to taste blood for the second time today. I wasn’t going to cry. I wasn’t. I wasn’t. I wasn’t—

He squeezed my hand, the gesture firm and grounding. “But you’re not doing it alone.”

Something cracked. Not loud. Not sudden. No tears. Just… a little break in the shell. Enough that I leaned into him, pressed my forehead to his shoulder. He wrapped his arms around me, warm and solid and there.

The sky outside the glass didn’t change. The stars still burned. Silent and still.

But my world didn’t feel quite so empty anymore.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆

I stayed curled into his arms for a long time. Jorgen didn’t say anything else. Just breathed with me. Held me like I wasn’t breaking. Like maybe I wasn’t.

And eventually… something settled.

Not fixed. Not whole. But settled. Just a little.

“I don’t want to be useless,” I whispered.

“You’re not,” he said softly.

“I don’t want to disappear into peacetime and turn into someone I wouldn’t even recognize.”

“You won’t.”

I pulled back enough to look at him. “You can’t promise that.”

“No,” he agreed. “But I can promise I’ll be here. To remind you who you are, if you forget. To fly with you, even when it’s not for battle. To watch you figure out what’s next.” He smiled, just a little. “To be really unhelpful when you try to cook, because I’ll eat all of it and lie about how it’s edible.”

I huffed a small laugh through my nose. “Stars help us all.”

The quiet returned, but this time, it didn’t press down against my chest as hard.

And then—I don’t even know what made me do it—I stood up.

Jorgen blinked. “Where are you going?”

I stared out the window, past the debris field, eyes drifting towards the stars. They weren’t enemies. They weren’t even answers. They were just… stars. Luminous, massive balls of hot gas, primarily composed of hydrogen and helium. Endless. Waiting.

“I don’t know,” I said honestly. “But I’m not done flying.”

He stood with me, close enough that our shoulders brushed.

“So,” I said, voice low but solid, “I’m going to figure out what flying means now. If I can.”

He looked at me, a slow smile blooming on his face. Not the polished one. Not the diplomatic one. The real one. The one he gave only to me.

“I’ll come with you.”

“I know,” I said, and reached for his hand again, lacing my fingers through his. “But this time… I think I want to go first.”

We walked away from the stars and the silence. Back into the quiet halls of Platfrom Prime.

And I didn’t have a mission anymore. I didn’t have orders.

But I had this: I was still flying. Still choosing. Still me. Still walking.

I didn’t know where I was going. I just knew I couldn’t stay still.

I wasn’t crying. I wasn’t angry. I wasn’t anything. Just… awake. Aware.

Like something inside me had gone still.

I guess that’s what peace feels like.

Lucky me.

Chapter Text

The datapad felt heavy in my hand.

It wasn’t, physically. It was the same model we always used, light and efficient and coated in matte polymer. But it felt like it weighed a thousand kilograms as I sat in the dim debrief room, the glow of the overhead light washing everything in a pale, sterile white.

They hadn’t even turned the brightness down.

Across from me, FM leaned against the wall, arms crossed tight across her chest like she was holding herself together with muscle tension alone. Arturo was next to her, quiet. Too quiet. He hadn’t spoken since we walked in.

Yes, the three of us had survived Evensong.

But a lot of people had not.

I swiped my thumb across the screen, unlocking the file. No security clearance anymore. No passcodes. Just access.

“Casualties: Evensong,” the header read.

And underneath…

Names. Just names.

Row after row. Person after person. Scrolling without end. The total count flashed at the top of the screen in small, sleek gray text.

Three hundred and sixty-four.

I stared at it.

Three hundred and sixty-four people. But not just people.

Some from our allied planets. Some from our own. Some I’d never heard of.

Pilots. Somebody’s friends. Somebody’s family.

A few—just a few—I recognized. People that had trained at the same time as my flight. Some pilots that tried to make small talk with me in the hallways.

But most? They were just names. Just cold, clinical print on a white screen.

FM moved first. She reached out and touched the datapad lightly, warm skin brushing again the lifeless cool of the screen, scrolling down a few entries with one finger. Her lips were pressed into a line so tight it made my chest hurt.

“They were just doing their jobs,” she said. Her voice was too calm. The kind of calm that doesn’t come from peace—but from holding everything in.

Arturo didn’t say anything.

He sat beside me and looked at the screen, unmoving, eyes dark and shadowed with something heavy. So heavy it was almost tangible.

I realized, after a moment, that his hand was shaking.

“Should we say something?” FM asked, quietly. “Like… an official statement.”

I blinked. A statement?

She meant for the families. For the survivors. Something hopeful. Something that honored them.

But what could I even say?

They were brave? They died for something, as heroes? They saved the galaxy?

I couldn’t make my mouth move. I couldn’t even nod. My throat constricted painfully.

Because all I could see was that number.

Three hundred and sixty-four.

I hated that I didn’t know them all. I hated that I couldn’t remember their faces. I hated that there were so many, they’d become a list instead of a loss.

I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream. But I think that might’ve made it worse.

Because the silence that filled my chest felt like rot. Like guilt. Like a weight I’d never scrub clean.

“This isn’t right,” I said finally. My voice sounded strange. Flat. Soulless. “This list shouldn’t be this long.”

FM stepped closer. She placed a hand on my shoulder and squeezed it firmly, the gesture supportive. “I know.”

Arturo finally spoke. Just one word.

“Spensa.”

I looked at him.

His eyes were red, snaking crimson lines curling around the dark brown of his irises, but he wasn’t crying either.

He just said, “We did our best.”

I didn’t know if that made it better or worse.

Because maybe our best still wasn’t enough. Because maybe no matter how hard we tried, it would always be inadequate.

I didn’t read the rest of the names. I just… couldn’t.

I closed the file and set the datapad down, the sharp *clink* cutting through the oppressive silence of the room like shards of glass.

Then I stood and walked out of the room, books clicking across the polished metal tiles. I didn’t say anything. FM and Arturo didn’t follow.

Outside, the air was dry and cold. I stared up at the stars poking through the debris field. Small, burning pinpricks of light, millions of miles away.

They weren’t burning. They weren’t exploding. They just were.

I wrapped my arms around myself, trying to keep the cold from seeping into my skin and settling into my very bones. But maybe it already had.

And almost—almost—cried. But I didn’t.

I just stood there, alone in the cold, thinking of names I’d never get to meet. Of the war we won, and everything it still took from us.

And I wondered—if peace costs this much… how much of ourselves do we lose buying it?

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆

I didn’t hear Doomslug arrive.

She didn’t chirp a warning or flute her dramatic “I am here and I demand affection” noise. One second I was standing there, arms wrapped around myself, the next—

A tiny, warm weight landed on my shoulder. The scent of mushrooms and singed moss hit me a half-second later.

I blinked. Then turned my head.

Doomslug.

She didn’t flute or imitate a random noise. She didn’t even wave those soft, little blue spikes of hers.

She just leaned into my jaw, pressing the soft part of her ‘head’ against my cheek.

Warmth radiated off her body, grounding me like almost nothing else could.

“Hey,” I whispered, voice cracking like it had rusted in the silence. “You found me.”

She didn’t respond. Just… stayed.

I didn’t move any further. I couldn’t.

Because the moment she touched me, the ache in my chest deepened. The weight of those names—the list of people I’d never speak to, never fly with, never save—pulled harder. But so did the warmth. The comfort.

And then—

Footsteps behind me. Slow. Hesitant.

Nedd. Of course.

I didn’t have to look. I could tell from the way the soles of his boots dragged slightly on the stones, like he wasn’t sure he even had permission to be here.

“Well,” he said, his voice uncharacteristically quiet. “I was gonna bring you a ration bar and make some dumb joke about how we should all eat our feelings but… I ate the bar on the way here. So. Now I’m just awkward and snackless.”

I exhaled slowly through my nose.

“You’re always awkward,” I said.

He stepped beside me, and for a moment we both stared at the sky like it had answers.

FM joined a minute later. She didn’t speak at first either. Just leaned against the wall next to me and held a steaming mug in both hands. Cocoa, probably. She always tried to get us to drink more of it after tough missions. Said it had “emotional vitamins.”

We just stood there, unmoving. Three broken pilots. One supportive slug.

One collective silence.

FM finally broke it.

“I thought I was done losing people,” she said, her voice wavering slightly. She kept staring straight ahead, blue eyes unreadable and distant, even though we were only standing a few inches apart. “Like the war ending would… I don’t know. Put a pause on it. Permanently.”

“Yeah,” Nedd muttered. “Guess the universe didn’t get that message.”

I looked at them. Really looked.

Nedd’s shoulders slumped under his usual navy flight jacket. FM’s fingers were white on her mug. Doomslug still hadn’t moved.

I swallowed hard, but it still didn’t soften the jagged lump in my throat.

“They’re just names on a list,” I whispered. “But they’re people. They’re gone. And it’s like… we’re expected to just move on. Like winning means we don’t get to break down.”

FM looked at me then. Really looked.

“You don’t have to hold it together, Spensa.”

I stiffened, muscles locking in defense.

“I’m not crying,” I said.

“I didn’t say you were,” she replied gently.

“I’m not,” I said again, louder this time. But my voice cracked.

And then Nedd, bless his idiotic heart, leaned over and whispered, “It’s okay, I cry whenever I stub my toe. Or see a really good soup.”

FM and I both turned and stared at him.

“What?” he said. “Soup is emotional.”

FM shook her head, lips twitching upwards slightly. “You are so broken.”

“Emotionally fortified,” Nedd corrected, tapping his temple pathetically. “This is just elite mental training.”

That reminded me… My thoughts wandered back to the day FM, Kimmalyn, and Hurl helped sneak me into Alta Base and handed me a bowl of soup that somehow tasted like the blood of my enemies—strangely comforting, if a little alarming. When we were just mere cadets.

And I laughed. Actually laughed. The sound caught me off guard.

Doomslug fluted once, clearly approving. “Emotionally fortified!”

And it hit me, right then, like a sledgehammer to the chest—

This pain we carried? This numbness?

We weren’t carrying it alone.

“I can’t forget them,” I murmured, finally meeting their eyes. “Even if I never knew them. I can’t… let them become background noise.”

“You won’t,” FM said. “Because you’re you.”

“Yeah,” Nedd added. “Loud. Impulsive. Reckless. Emotionally constipated.”

I elbowed him. A little too hard.

He let out a dramatic groan and stumbled back a step, arms flailing.

Doomslug made a noise that sounded suspiciously

And for a moment—for just that fragile, flickering moment—I felt a little less like I was drowning.

FM tilted her head toward the doors. “Come on. We’re still planning the memorial. It doesn’t have to be official yet. But I think we should do something. Say their names. Even if we didn’t know them.”

I nodded.

Then looked up at the stars one last time.

They didn’t burn. They didn’t explode.

But maybe—just maybe—they remembered too.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆

We went back inside, eventually.

The hallways were quieter than usual. Too quiet. Like the whole base was holding its breath, scared to exhale. Scared that if it did, someone else might vanish.

We passed two techs in silence. Another pilot nodded at me—too fast, too polite.

Like she didn’t know if she was supposed to salute or avert her eyes. I didn’t blame her. I didn’t know who I was either.

A commander? A weapon? A symbol?

…Just a girl?

We made it to the meeting room, where the casualty lists were now projected across the holoscreen in thin white font on a black background. Neat. Clinical. Like death was just a scudding database entry.

If I’d thought it was unbearable to see on a datapad… it was even worse here.

The names flickered slightly with each refresh, sorting by flight and registration number.

Like it mattered what order we’d lost them in.

Arturo stood near the back, arms folded. His face was carved out of stone. Blank. Unmoving. Furious.

When I entered, he glanced over.

Said nothing. He hadn’t spoken in hours. Just nodded.

That was worse, somehow. Worse than if he’d yelled. Worse than if he’d broken something.

FM moved to stand beside him, footsteps barely audible as she moved.

Nedd shuffled in after me, grabbed a chair, spun it backward, and sat on it like an idiot. His eyes never touched the list.

I stepped forward.

The screen changed. Updated. Ten more names scrolled in.

Some with attached files—short, brief notes. A few had images. Most didn’t.

Dead. Unknown. Missing.

Names. Names. Names. Too. Many. Fucking. Names.

They didn’t hit me like a punch to the gut. Not this time.

No. This time it was like rocky sand filling my lungs. Slow. Dry. Suffocating.

I didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe.

The letters on the screen blurred dangerously.

Kiera Solace.
Jonis Brent.
Indri Vann.
Tholen Jeric, age sixteen.

Sixteen. How much had they lowered the age limit?

He wasn’t supposed to be there. He was too young.

My fingers curled into fists, nails digging harshly into my palms, skin pulled tight across my wrists.

I barely registered the heat in my palms until I felt it—the sharp, sudden sting. I looked down.

My burn had cracked open again, the bandage peeling off. White gauze spotted red, the wound angry and weeping.

I didn’t care. They were just names. I didn’t know them.

So why did I feel like I was falling apart?

“Spensa,” FM’s voice, soft and careful. “Sit down.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re shaking.”

I looked down at my hands again. Trembling. Pale. Knuckles white. Blood from the split burn finally seeping onto my palm.

“Leave her,” Arturo muttered, but it wasn’t harsh. Just… understanding. “She’s processing scud the only way she knows how.”

“Yeah, which is badly,” Nedd said. “Zero stars, do not recommend. Very unstable flight path.”

I didn’t laugh. Didn’t even smile. No one else did either.

The silence folded in again, heavy and sharp, like the emotional equivalent of walking across splintered glass barefoot.

The kind that slices deeper than any blade or sound ever could.

A name flickered.

Ravyn Ives.

I think I did know that one. She was a pilot from Stormbound Flight. Not Skyward Flight, but she’d trained under Cobb too, a year before us. We’d talked a little once. Once.

Her callsign was Obsidian.

Was

I blinked. Once. Twice. Thrice.

I turned around, my hair falling over my face, hiding my facial expression.

Walked away. Alone. Silent.

Didn’t say a word to the others.

I heard footsteps behind me. FM again. “Spensa—”

“Don’t,” I said, voice hoarse and strained.

I didn’t stop walking.

The hallway felt longer than before. Endless. Like an eternity. Corridors stretching endlessly, the harsh lights overhead increasing the persistent throb in my head. Every shadow stretched out, too long. Like the light didn’t want to touch this place anymore. Each uneven footstep echoed through my skull—not doing anything to drown out the voices inside my head.

What is wrong with me?

What kind of hero lets this much die on her watch?

How many more have to break before I’m broken enough to stop pretending?

Did I even fight for them, or just for myself?

What if I’m just a survivor who’s too selfish to care?

How do you carry all this pain without losing your damn mind?

Am I really any better than the people I fought against if I’m still so scared inside?

How many ghosts am I dragging with me—and how many have I become?

What’s left of me after all this?

The burn on my hand throbbed, sharp and angry and stinging with every step.

I reached the hangar doors. Pushed through. Kept going. The air out here was cold, but at least it tasted clean.

I stood, looking out the window through the landing pad, and stared at the horizon.

I didn’t mean to make a sound, but something in me broke. A wrenching, dry sob like something was clawing its way up my throat. A sound so hoarse it didn’t even feel human, even though my eyes were still dry. I clapped a hand over my mouth but it didn’t help.

The names, the list, the eyes of people who weren’t there anymore—

They weren’t supposed to die. They didn’t deserve to have their lives taken away from them.

My shoulders shook.

I didn’t cry. Not yet. But I almost did.

And that felt worse than if I had.

Because that meant I could still hold it in.

That meant the dam hadn’t broken.

That meant I hadn’t let go. Not yet.

Behind me, I heard the doors open again. Then a pause. Bootsteps. Slow and careful, like the person didn’t want to break the silence.

Jorgen.

I didn’t look. I couldn’t.

I didn’t want him to see me like this—coming apart in pieces, hand bloodied, face white, eyes dry but screaming.

He sat beside me. Didn’t even touch me. Didn’t even speak.

And still, somehow, his presence was a storm of noise in the silence.

My burn pulsed. The lights flickered. Doomslug fluted somewhere distant.

The world kept going.

And I—

I stayed still. I stayed silent.

Because I didn’t know how to fall apart the rest of the way.

Not yet.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆

The pain was nothing but an insignificant ember. At first. Then it flared.

I flinched, finally looking down. My hand was sticky. Blood smeared across my palm and fingers, half-dried, half-fresh. The bandage had peeled halfway off, and the angry, raw burn underneath pulsed with heat and fury—bright red, the skin tight and glistening in places where the top layer had torn again.

“Oh scud,” I muttered, the nausea hitting all at once.

I clenched my teeth as it throbbed again, like fire gnawing through muscle. My fingers twitched. The nerves were screaming now, like they’d waited for me to notice before shrieking.

I felt light-headed.

Why hadn't I noticed it sooner? Maybe because my heart had been cracking in too many other places.

Jorgen shifted beside me, leaning forward, gaze traveling to my fingers. “Spensa.” His voice was low, sharp with worry. His eyes flicked to my hand. “Stars—why didn’t you say something?”

“It’s fine,” I said through gritted teeth.

“You’re literally bleeding.”

“It’s—” My voice caught. “It’s not important.”

“The hell it isn’t.”

He moved closer, reaching gently. I flinched back, breath hitching. The air on the burn felt like knives.

“I can take you to the medbay,” he said, brows furrowed. “Right now.”

“I don’t want—” My throat closed up, blocking out my voice. “I don’t want to see more white walls. Not today.”

He stood, slowly walking away. Vanished for a minute. Came back with a small first aid kit—emergency supplies stashed near the hangar’s supply locker. Standard issue. I hated how familiar they were.

He knelt beside me. Opened the kit slowly. Didn’t touch me yet.

“You have to let me clean it.”

“Okay,” I whispered.

His hands were steady. Careful. He tore open a sterile pad and reached for the antiseptic. “This is going to sting like hell.”

“I’ve had worse.”

“You say that every time.”

He glanced up at me, and for a moment, we just… looked at each other. The bloodied edge of my bandage brushed against his wrist.

Then he braced my hand in his, and poured the antiseptic.

The burn screamed.

I bit down on a curse, squeezing my eyes shut. My spine stiffened. The pain wasn’t just pain—it was bright, sharp enough to make stars bloom behind my eyes.

“Keep breathing,” Jorgen murmured, voice barely above the wind. “Almost done.”

I could feel the tears prickling faintly at the back of my eyes now—not from grief. Not from the dead.

Just from this scudding burn that wouldn’t stop hurting.

He wrapped it gently, layering clean gauze over it. His fingers were steady, his expression tight with focus. Like this was a mission. Like saving this one little piece of me mattered.

“You’re an idiot,” he said softly when he finished.
“I know,” I rasped.

“You don’t have to be invincible.”

I didn’t respond.

He settled next to me again. Let the silence stretch.

The pain dulled a little. My hand still throbbed with every heartbeat, but at least it wasn’t bleeding anymore. I stared at the bandage.

He sat back on his heels, wrapping the bloodied gauze in its packaging before tucking it away in the kit.

I flexed my fingers slightly. Winced. “Thanks,” I muttered.

“You’re welcome,” he said softly. “You should’ve said something.”

“I didn’t want to make it a thing.”

“It is a thing.”

I didn’t answer. My head throbbed with the weight of everything like it had a heartbeat of its own.

Jorgen didn’t say anything else either. Just shifted so he was beside me again. Not touching—but close. Very close. He looked out over the hangar like I was doing the same, even though my eyes weren’t focused on anything. Not really.

Then, after a long stretch of silence, he lifted his hand and brushed his knuckles against mine. Softly. Testing.

I didn’t move away.

His hand slid into mine a moment later—wary, gentle. I let him lace our fingers together. My bandaged one rested against his palm, and he adjusted slightly, cradling it so it didn’t sting as much.

It was such a stupid, small thing. But stars, it made my throat ache.

His thumb traced the back of my hand. Not in circles, not rhythmically. Just… there. Moving. Warm. Grounding.

“I saw that list earlier,” he said, voice like gravel and dusk. “The casualty report. I had to approve the final transmission. Felt like I was signing off on a funeral.”

I didn’t speak. Jorgen didn’t push me to.

“I knew some of the names. Not well. Just… enough.”

I nodded. Fast. Too fast.

That burn behind my eyes crept closer.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he added, and leaned closer—just enough to rest his shoulder against mine. His presence was steady, heavy in the best way. Solid ground beneath the void.

We sat like that a while. It helped. And it didn’t. And it hurt.

I wanted to crawl out of my skin. Find resolve somewhere else.

“I’m tired,” I whispered.

He nodded again. “Me too.”

And then, because the universe is cruel and sharp-edged and likes to test me in moments like these, I looked down at my newly wrapped hand.

Blood still dotted the corner of the gauze.

A thin red line smeared across my knuckle where Jorgen’s thumb had brushed it.

“It’s stupid,” I said after a while.
Jorgen raised a brow. “What is?”

“Crying over people I didn’t know. Over names.”

“It’s not stupid.”

“Feels like it.”
He didn’t argue. Just squeezed my hand a little firmer.

“They fought for something,” I said. “For us. For a future we’re standing in right now. And I’m just—just sitting here. Bleeding on my own boots. Not knowing what the hell to do.”

Jorgen’s voice was quiet, but firm. “Then sit. Bleed. Remember them. That’s something.”

I closed my eyes.

Let the pain sit with me. Let the grief sit with me too.

I still didn’t cry. Not yet.

But I was so damn close I could taste it.

And stars help me, if one more person tells me I’m strong, I might just shatter in their face—so they can see what strength actually looks like when it bleeds.

Chapter Text

I didn’t mean to drop it. I really didn’t.

It wasn’t anything important—just a scudding mug. One of the plain white ceramic ones from the mess hall. Slightly chipped near the handle, faint stain on the inside from too many cups of too-strong coffee. I’d taken it to my quarters hours ago and forgotten about it, just like everything else lately. The reports were still stacked in uneven towers on my desk. The lights were still dim. The silence was still there. Still lingering. Never leaving.

I’d gone the whole day without breathing.

Not literally, of course. But the kind of breathing that really matters. That unclenches your chest and makes you feel like a human again. That reminds you you're alive. I was alive. The war was over. I was supposed to be fine now.

So why wasn’t I? What was wrong with me?

Everyone kept saying it. Like it was a switch I could flip.

“Rest now, pilot.”
“You’ve earned peace.”
“You’re a hero, Nightshade.”

And I hated every single damn word.

I didn’t want to be a hero. I didn’t need to rest. I wanted something to do, something to fly, something to fix, something to break, something to live for. I wanted to matter. I wanted to not feel like I was drifting. Not to feel like was hollow, like someone had scarped me out and left behind only my skin.

So I got up from the desk where I had been pretending to read through a particularly obnoxious maintenance log, and I went to put the mug in the sink. Just a stupid, normal thing. A boring, everyday, peacetime thing.

But—because of course the universe liked to push me beyond my physical and mental limits—my fingers were clumsy. Maybe I was tired. Maybe my hand was still sore from that burn. Maybe my nerves were fried like the rest of me. Either way, the mug slipped.

I watched it fall, lower and lower by the time by brain finally adjusted to what my eyes were seeing. It took half a second.

Half a second to hit the ground and explode into pieces. Like a sharp, ceramic supernova in a sky made of cold metal.

The sound was so loud in the quiet that it made me flinch.

I stared at it. Shards scattered across the floor, white ceramic splinters catching the faint light. There was nothing special about the mug. It was just an insignificant little thing. Nothing valuable. Nothing sentimental.

But I stared at it like it had ripped a hole in the world.

My chest tightened. My lungs locked, airways constricting like a vice. I clenched my jaw so hard it hurt.

Because somehow, in that tiny stupid moment—that was the thing. The one bad thing. The one tiny, meaningless accident that tipped the weight of everything I’d been holding in for the past few weeks.

My mind immediately started racing, fast and spiraling.

It’s just a mug.
It’s just a mug.
It’s just a fucking mug.

Why does this matter? It’s fine. Pick it up. Clean it. Keep moving. Keep working. Keep pretending you’re okay. Keep pretending you’re not tired. Not scared. Not angry. Not falling apart.

My legs felt weak. I backed away from the broken pieces slowly, like they might explode again. Like they were a warning. A signal. A message written in fragments.

Something is wrong.
Something inside you is breaking.
And you can’t stop it.

I didn’t make a sound. Not yet. My throat burned, dry and tight, but I didn’t let it go. Not here. Not now.

I turned away from the mess on the floor, walked across the room in jerky, stiff movements.

My fingers hovered near the switch for the lights. And then—slowly—I turned them off.

Darkness wrapped around me like a blanket and a noose at the same time.

I slid down the wall. My knees buckled without permission.

And I sat in silence, heart pounding, eyes wide, holding everything in—barely.

I wasn’t crying. Yet.

But something inside me was cracking open. And I didn’t know if I could close it again.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆

I shoved myself off the floor a few moments later like I hadn’t just almost shattered (just like the mug), stepping over the broken pieces without picking them up. My boot crunched down on a shard and I didn’t flinch. I didn’t even care.

The walls of the hallway outside my quarters felt like they were pressing in on me as I stomped toward the door, fists clenched, jaw locked. I passed a couple of crew people—not pilots, junior engineers probably—but I didn’t see their faces. Just blurs. Shadows. They moved out of my way fast. Good.

If anyone tried to stop me, talk to me, say something stupid like “Are you okay?” I didn’t know what I’d do. Snap at them? Scream? Collapse? Violence? Laugh like a maniac? There was no answer I could give that didn’t taste like spite and lies.

I got to my quarters, stepped inside, and slammed the door shut behind me. It echoed through the small space like a gunshot, the force of it sending my hair flying backwards.

Locked it. One. Twice.

The second lock wasn’t necessary. But it felt better. Like a boundary. Like a shield. Like I was sealing myself into a prison cell, and the silence could finally be mine alone.

I stood there in the middle of the room, breathing hard. Lights still on. The shattered pieces of my almost-life still behind me.

I moved to the switch.

Click.

Dark. The room barely Illuminated by the soft glow from the bedside lamp.

The soft whine of the ventilation system hummed through the darkness. That was all. No voices on the comms. No alarms. No engines. No orders. No missions. Just me.

Just Spensa. Or whoever—whatever—the hell I was now.

I slid down the wall again, slower this time, like gravity had finally gotten its hold on me. My legs folded beneath me, and I sat on the cold floor, head resting against the cold metal wall, arms limp at my sides.

And then—I waited. Like my breakdown had to get in line behind everything else. Like even now, I needed permission to feel anything.

I tried not to cry. I told myself I was fine.

That I’d survived worse. That some people had it harder. That I had no right to feel like this now, not after everything we’d won and fought for.

But the thoughts kept coming. Circling and curling around my mind like smoke.

You're pathetic.

Weak.

Everyone else is moving on. Why can’t you?

They smile. They laugh. They sleep. They eat. You stare at walls. You can’t sleep thought the night. You have bruises blooming across your body. You break mugs. You’re broken.

I tried to breathe, but it hitched in my throat, like a jagged rock that refused to dislodge.

I curled my arms around myself, squeezing tighter and tighter like I could hold myself together with the sheer force of will.

The tears burned hot behind my eyes, and I blinked fast. No. No. Not now. Not over a mug. Not over nothing.

I bit my tongue—hard enough for it to pain.

I pressed my nails into my palms—hard enough to leave little crescent shaped marks.

I was not going to cry.

But then—

A small sniff slipped out.

And then another. And then the dam cracked.

My chest caved in on itself. My face crumpled like paper.

And I broke.

The first sob was small. Barely a sound. Just a small, pained noise that exited my lips despite my pathetic attempts to stop it. But the second was louder. Sharper. The third crawled its way out of my throat like a scream I couldn’t stop. I choked on it, tried to shove it back down, but it wouldn’t listen. None of it would.

Tears ran hot and fast down my face, dripping from my cheeks. My breath stuttered, too fast, too shallow, each inhale a gasp that didn’t quite reach my lungs.

I pressed my hands to my mouth to muffle the sound, but it didn’t help. I was unraveling. Unspooling. Every single moment I’d bottled up, every little thing I’d shrugged off, every name I didn’t know on those casualty reports—the overwhelming weight of them combined all hit me at once, like a punch to the chest.

I heard myself whisper it. Broken, hoarse, hateful:

“Why didn’t I just die at Evensong?”

It slipped out like the truth. Like something that had been waiting for a small crack in the walls of my mind to escape. I hated it the second I said it. But I didn’t take it back. I couldn’t.

“It would’ve been easier,” I muttered, to the darkness, to the cold floor, to no one. “Everyone would’ve moved on. I wouldn’t be this… this broken thing… this nothing stuck in a box with no war left to fight.”

I drew in a shaking breath, shivering despite the temperature of the room. My hands trembled against my chest.

“I don’t know how to be like this,” I whispered. “I don’t know who I am without something to fix. Or destroy. Or protect. Or fight for.”

The words echoed in my skull, taunting.

You're useless.

Everyone else has a place. You’re just taking up space.

My burn—still wrapped, still sore—ached under the layers of gauze. I’d torn it open a few days ago, hadn’t I? I didn’t even check it after that. I didn’t care.

I pulled my knees to my chest, hugging them, head buried. Still crying. Still shaking.Still broken.

And I stayed there. In the dark.

Letting myself fall apart, fully and completely, for the first time since Evensong.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆

I don’t know how long I sat there, crying like that. It could’ve been minutes. It could’ve been hours. Time didn’t matter. Nothing did. Not anymore.

My chest hurt. My throat was raw from the effort of trying to stifle back more sobs. My head pounded with every ragged, stuttering breath. My eyes felt swollen, lashes wet with tears and salt and maybe something else I didn’t want to name. It hurt tobreathe. It hurt not to breathe.

Everything hurt.

And then I moved.

I didn’t even mean to.

My hand jerked—just slightly—but the motion was enough. I’d curled up too tight, tucked myself in like I could disappear into my own skin somehow. But the angle was wrong. My wrist slammed into the corner of the desk leg near the floor. A sharp corner. Metal. Unforgiving.

White-hot agony shot up my arm, nerves lighting up in pain.

“Scud!” I hissed through clenched teeth, jerking back and clutching my wrist to inspect the damage.

The bandages were already damp with old blood and antiseptic, but now—now they were wet. Warm. And soaking fast.

I pulled my hand away, squinting in the dark as my fingers came back slick and sticky. I didn’t need light to know what I’d find. I could already feel it—wet and pulsing and sharp, like the skin had split open all over again.

I stumbled to my feet—a half trip, half lurch—my knees stiff from sitting too long, like my bones were covered in rust. I fumbled for the light switch, missed it once, twice. Then slammed my whole hand into the panel.

Click.

Light blazed overhead. My eyes screamed at the sudden glare. I blinked fast, tried to focus.

And there it was.

The bandages on my wrist were dark with blood. Crimson seeping though the layers of cotton in thick, uneven stains. Already dripping down my wrist.

I felt sick. I should’ve changed the wrap earlier. I should have applied more antiseptic. I knew it needed time to heal, needed salve and new cloth and rest. But I didn’t care. I’d been too busy falling apart to deal with being alive.

Now I stared at it like it wasn’t even mine. Like the blood didn’t belong to me. Like it was proof of something I’d refused to admit:

I was bleeding because I’d let myself rot.

I clenched my jaw and ripped the bandage off in a fit of frustration. It peeled away slowly, tugging at scab and my skin alike, and I had to bite down hard on my tongue to keep from screaming. A hot, metallic taste filled my mouth.

Underneath, the burn had split wide open.

The skin was red and ragged around the edges, glistening with blood and fluid. A deep gash ran across the center—part of the burn torn open fresh, reaching deep into my skin. Angry. Wet. Shiny with raw nerves.

My stomach twisted painfully.

It looked worse than I remembered. Deeper. Like the damage went down, not just across. Like it wasn’t healing. Like it never would.

The nausea crept up fast.

I staggered back from the desk, hand pressed to my mouth, dragging in shaky breaths through my nose. I leaned against the wall and slid down again, landing with a dull thud that rattled my bones.

And I stared at my wrist.

Let it drip. Of course I’d made it worse. That’s what I always did.

I should’ve gone to the medbay. I should’ve called someone.

But I didn’t move. I just couldn’t.

Because something about it—watching the blood fall, feeling the sting, the way the pain felt like proof—it made something in me go quiet.

The noise in my head paused. And then—

Maybe if it keeps bleeding, I’ll finally disappear.

The thought came soft. Quiet. Not loud and brutal like it used to. Just… calm. Logical. Like a fact. Like gravity.

Maybe I’d done everything I was meant to do. Fought the war. Saved the people. Fulfilled the desires. Worn the stars like a shield until they burned through me.

And now? Now I was just ashes. Burnt stardust.

I curled my fingers around my wrist, trying to suppress the blood flow. But all it did was press the blood out forcefully, and all I could do was watch it drip faster between my knuckles.

“Why couldn’t I have died?” I whispered, voice cracking. “Why not me?”

Another sob. Broken. Shaky.

“Why did I live when so many didn’t?”

I closed my eyes.

And for a terrifying moment—I pictured it. The end of the battle. My cockpit, cracked. My systems failing. The enemy falling with me. If I’d just been a little slower. If the blasts had been just a little closer—

Gone. No more fear. No more silence. No more being left behind.

I shook my head, furious with myself.

“Stop it,” I muttered. “Stop it. You’re not allowed to think like that.”
But I did. I thought about it harder.

Because I didn’t want to want it. But I did. And that guilt tore through me worse than the burn or any wound ever could.

I pressed my forehead to my knees, the blood from my wrist smearing onto my pants, into my skin, staining everything I touched.

I was broken. Useless. A mess of pain and regret and silence.

And for the first time since the battle…

I didn’t want to be fixed.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆

I don’t know how long I sat there, crying, blood dripping from my wrist to the floor, my chest a broken mixture of self-hatred and pain until the first knock cut though the silence. My head jerked upright.

It was soft. Barely audible through the blood in my ears and the static in my mind. I froze, flinching like a kid caught doing something wrong.

“Spensa?”

His voice. Jorgen.

My heart clenched. I didn’t move. Didn’t say a word.

Another knock. Firmer this time.

“Spensa. Open the door. Please.”

No. No, I couldn’t. I didn’t want him to see me like this.

I couldn’t breathe properly. My face was blotchy. My wrist was still bleeding. I was curled on the floor in a pathetic little heap of failure and self-loathing, surrounded by broken pieces of myself—literal and not.

“I know you’re in there.”

He sounded calm. Steady. I hated it.

I hated that he was always steady when I wasn’t. I hated that he cared enough to come. I hated that part of me wanted to scream at him and another part wanted to throw myself into his arms and sob until my body gave out.

“Go away,” I croaked. My voice cracked. “I don’t want to talk.”

Silence.

Then, after a beat: “I’m not leaving.”

Of course he wasn’t. I dragged myself up a little, knees to my chest again, and let my head drop back against the wall. My wrist throbbed. The blood was sticky and thick. It had slowed… a little. Or maybe I’d just stopped caring again.

“I said go away,” I snapped, louder this time. “I don’t want you here.”

Another pause.Then came a soft sound—metal clicking. A hiss.

My stomach dropped.

The override key.

“No—Jorgen—don’t—“

The door unlocked with one, final click.

I tried to get up, to bolt, to hide, to fix myself a little—but I was too slow. My body
didn’t listen. My limbs were basically jelly. And the second the light from the hallway poured in, making me squint against the sudden change, I knew it was over.

He stood in the doorway, framed in harsh brightness. He didn’t say anything immediately—he just stood there, silhouetted by the light of the hallway, his posture stiff and his eyes searching for me in the darkness.

And he finally saw me.

I didn’t even have the strength to turn away.

“Stars,” he breathed, eyes wide and brows creased with worry.

His boots stepped in—slowly, like he was approaching something unknown. I guess in a way he was. I was something feral and broken and bleeding on the floor, too emotionally distant to reach but too destroyed to run.

“What… what happened?” His voice wasn’t calm anymore. It cracked on the last word.

“I told you not to come in.” My voice came out hoarse. Pathetic.

He ignored me.

“Spensa—what happened to your wrist?”

I looked down. The blood had started pooling again. It had dripped down onto thefloor, smeared onto my sleeve, crusted around my fingernails. The whole room smelled like metal and tears.

“It’s fine.”

“It’s not.” His voice went sharp. “Scud, you’re—how long have you been like this? Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because I didn’t want to be fixed!” I screamed suddenly. It burst out of me before I could stop it, shattering the silence. “Because I didn’t want anyone to see me like this, because I hate feeling this way, because I was fine before you opened that stupid door and ruined it—”

I choked. No more words came out.
Just gasps. Just broken, aching gasps.Jorgen dropped to his knees in front of me, slow and careful.

“I didn’t want to ruin anything,” he said, quietly now. “I just… I couldn’t stay out there. Not when I knew. Not when I heard something break and you didn’t answer. I knew something was wrong, Spensa.”

I turned my face away, shaking, arms wrapped around myself like I could hold my body together with sheer willpower alone.

“Why won’t it stop hurting?” I whispered. “Why does it feel like I’m losing even when the war’s over?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just reached for my hand—gently. Carefully. He didn’t touch the wrist. Didn’t jolt the blood. He just rested his palm on my trembling fingers

“You’re not weak,” he said. “You’re wounded.”

“It’s the same thing.”

“No, it’s not.”

Silence.

Then he whispered, “Let me help.”

I didn’t say yes.

But I didn’t pull away, either.

I let him sit there. Let his fingers thread through mine. Let the quiet stretch between us like a bandage, a wrap, something soft to hold the sharp and broken edges in place.

I didn’t even realize I was leaning into him until my forehead touched his shoulder.

It was light at first. Hesitant. Like the part of me that still wanted to be strong was carefully testing the weight. But it took everything in me just to stay upright. I could feel the heat of his skin through his uniform. The familiar, steady beat of his heart. The fabric smelled like and coffee and paper and something inexplicably safe.

He didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Just stayed there.

And that… that was what did it.

My breath hitched. My throat clenched tight.

I made a horrible, broken sound—half gasp, half sob—and collapsed into him.

Like my entire body gave up all at once.

I clutched at his jacket like I’d drown if I let go—like it was my lifeline through the storm of my feelings. And then the sobs came again, ripping out of me with no grace, no control. Ugly, raw, hiccuping sobs that burned up my lungs and choked off my thoughts. My body trembled with the force of it. My face pressed against his neck, hot and wet and aching.

“I can’t do this,” I choked. “I can’t—I can’t keep pretending I’m fine. I’m not, I’m not, I’m not, I’m so scudding tired—”

His arms wrapped around me, pulling me further into his chest. Strong. Warm.

Not forcing. Not crushing. Just holding me like I wouldn’t break—like I couldn’t.

“I know,” he murmured into my hair. “I know, stars, Spensa, I know.”

“I hate this.” My fingers dug into his shirt. “I hate that I feel this way, I hate that I’m not strong enough, I hate that people died and I’m still here and I don’t even know why—”

“Stop.” His voice cracked. “Don’t do that. Don’t you dare act like you don’t deserve to be here.”

“I should’ve died with them.”

His breath hitched.

He pulled back just enough to look at me, his hands still steady on my arms.

“Don’t say that,” he said, voice low and hoarse. “Please don’t say that. Not you. Not after everything.”

“I’m useless,” I whispered. “The war’s over. There are no more missions. There’s nothing left for me to fight. I don’t know who I am anymore. And this stupid burn—” I gestured vaguely at my bleeding wrist, “—won’t stop hurting. And I can’t breathe and I can’t sleep and I can’t stop feeling like—like I’m—wrong.”

“Spensa,” he said, his eyes shining now, “You’re not wrong. You’re hurting.”

“But I shouldn’t be,” I spat. “Everyone keeps telling me it’s over. That I’m a hero. That I should be grateful. And all I want to do is scream until my voice gives out.”

He pressed his forehead to mine, gently, his touch grounding.

“You don’t have to be anything right now,” he whispered. “Not a pilot. Not a warrior. Not a leader. You’re allowed to be broken. You’re allowed to fall apart. And I’ll be here when you do.”

That made something in me snap.

The sobs came harder. Like I’d been holding the pressure in for too long though the cracks and the dam just finally gave way completely. All the pain and grief and guilt and self-loathing came pouring out, one shattered breath at a time.

And Jorgen held be through it.

He didn’t try to stop it. Didn’t hush me. Didn’t fix me.

He just held me.

One hand around my back. The other bracing my broken wrist, carefully but firmly. Like he wasn’t going to let even that part of me fall apart on its own.

I don’t know how long I stayed like that. Time lost meaning. Everything blurred.

But eventually, my breathing slowed. My muscles ached from the tension. My wrist throbbed in dull pulses, and I could feel the dried blood sticking to his jacket.

I was so tired.

Not the kind of tired that sleep could fix.

But somehow, wrapped in his arms, it didn’t feel like I was drowning anymore.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, my voice barely there. “I didn’t mean to yell. Or say—what I said.”

“Don’t apologize,” he said. “Not for feeling.”

I shuddered. “It’s too much.”

“I know.” He ran a hand through my hair, slow and careful. “You don’t have to carry it alone anymore.”

And maybe, just maybe… I believed him.

Just a little.

Because for the first time in days—maybe weeks—I didn’t feel like I was made of shattered glass.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆

I didn’t even realize I was swaying until Jorgen shifted, stood up, and guided me gently toward the bed.

“Come on,” he murmured. “You need to lie down.”

“I’m fine,” I whispered, my words wobbling.

“You’re bleeding, shaking, and look like you’re about to pass out.”

I didn’t argue.

He sat me down on the edge of the bed like I was something precious, and I let him. My wrist was sticky with blood, thudding in time with my heartbeat, and every part of me felt like it had been though the entire Nowhere and back.

He crouched in front of me, opening the emergency medkit from my wall. “I’m going to clean the wound, alright?”

I nodded. It stung when he started—sharp, biting pain, even worse than the last time that pulled another hiss out of my throat. I clenched my jaw. Tried not to flinch. Jorgen’s fingers were steady, his touch sure, but he was careful. So careful. Like he didn’t want to hurt me more than I already was.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly as he dabbed the broken skin with antiseptic. “About everything.”

“I don’t blame you,” I said. My voice didn’t sound like mine. It was hollow, distant, like it had to travel a long way to get out of my chest. “I just… I can’t keep pretending this doesn’t hurt.”

“I know,” he said again, his brows drawn, mouth tight with grief. “But you don’t have to pretend anymore.”

He wrapped the bandage tight enough to keep it closed, but not enough to hurt. When he was done, he stood, reached behind me, and pulled back the blanket.

I didn’t move at first.

I stared at the bed like it was a battlefield. Like if I laid down, it would all come rushing back.

“Spensa,” he said softly. “It’s okay.”

I swallowed. My throat was raw, my eyes swollen, my chest cracked open. But I let him guide me under the blanket. I lay on my side, curled up around the pain and the bandage and everything I still hadn’t said.

The lights were still off. The room was quiet except for the distant hum of the base systems.

I felt the bed shift as Jorgen sat down beside me.

“Do you want me to go?” he asked.

I didn’t even think. I just reached out, fingers trembling, and tugged at his sleeve.

He laid down behind me a second later, carefully, his body pressed just barely against mine. One arm slid around my waist. The other gently tucked a lock of hair behind my ear. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to.

His breath was slow and steady against the back of my neck.

I breathed in. And again. And again.

My heartbeat began to match his. The world felt a little less sharp.

My eyes slipped closed. I didn’t mean to fall asleep.

But maybe my body knew something my mind didn’t.

That it was safe now.

That, just for tonight, I didn’t have to be strong.

I could fall apart, and someone would be there to hold the pieces.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆

I woke up too fast.

The air was thick—too thick—pressing against my ribs like it wanted to keep them from expanding. My fingers curled against the blanket. The room was too dark. My chest squeezed. The edges of my vision blurred, and for a heartbeat, I didn’t know where I was.

I forgot.

I forgot I wasn’t back in the wreckage of Evensong.
Forgot I wasn’t crammed into the cramped cell where they’d held me.
Forgot that I’d made it out.
That the battle was over.
That I was alive.

But my brain didn’t catch up. My throat clenched like I was about to scream, lungs burning, fingers shaking. I tried to sit up too quickly, the world lurching sideways, and I bit down on a gasp as the pain in my wrist flared again.

“Spensa,” came the voice, soft but firm, immediately alert. A hand touched my back, steady and warm.

I flinched.

“It’s me. Hey—hey, you’re okay. You’re safe. I’m right here. It was just a nightmare.”

Jorgen.

My heart stuttered. I blinked hard against the panic crowding my chest.

“Look at me,” he whispered.

I didn’t want to. I couldn’t. My breathing was too fast, like I was a lifebuster about to go off. But I turned anyway. Slowly. Carefully.

And there he was.

Half-illuminated by the faint glow of the bedside lamp. His face was creased with worry, his curls a mess, eyes red-rimmed but focused only on me.

I couldn’t stop shaking.

“I—I thought—” I didn’t know how to finish. My voice cracked halfway through, small and tight and useless.

“You’re here,” he said gently, inching closer but not crowding me. “We’re at the base. You’re in your quarters. It’s nighttime, and it’s quiet. You’re not alone.”

My mouth wobbled.

I curled in on myself, arms wrapped tight around my middle as if I could somehow hold myself together that way.

“I don’t want to feel like this,” I whispered, gripping my arms tighter. “I don’t want to be this.”

“You’re not broken, Spensa,” he said softly. “You’re human.”

I closed my eyes, pressing the heel of my uninjured palm against them. “It doesn’t feel like enough.”

“It is,” he whispered. “You are.”

He shifted closer, careful and slow. His arm wrapped around my shoulders, the heat somehow calming. I didn’t pull away.

“Breathe with me,” he said. “One at a time.”

I tried.

Scud, it was hard.

But I followed the rhythm of his voice, the warmth of his hand, the rise and fall of his chest. In. Out. Again. And again.

The panic didn’t vanish completely, but it dulled.

“Jerkface,” I whispered, voice hoarse.

“I’m here.”

“I hate how weak this makes me feel.”

“You’re not weak,” he said instantly. “You survived. You kept going when no one else could’ve. You don’t have to carry the weight forever.”

“But I don’t know how to put it down.”

He reached out, gently brushing my damp hair back from my forehead before pressing a soft kiss to my temple.

“Then let me hold it with you,” he said. “Just for a while.”

And that—

Stars. That broke something new in me.

Not in the sharp, shattering, overwhelming way from a few hours ago.

This was softer. Like a knot coming undone after being pulled tight for too long.

I breathed out again. Slower this time. My fingers stopped digging into my arms.

His fingers stayed tangled in my hair for a second longer, then moved—tracing along my jaw, slow and steady. He tilted my face toward him with the gentlest pressure, thumb brushing just beneath my eye, catching the remnants of tears I hadn’t even realized were still there.

His thumb brushed across my cheekbone, soft as a feather. Not urgent. Not demanding. Just... there. Present. Quiet.

"I shouldn't have—" The words caught, a half-formed apology stuck in my throat. "I didn't mean to break down like that. I didn’t even—"

"Spensa." His voice was low and firm. That same tone he used when talking to people who were being stupid. "You don’t owe me an apology for feeling things."

"But I scared you." I forced the words out like they were knives lodged between my ribs. "You knocked. I didn’t let you in. I was—I couldn’t—”

"I know," he said, eyes never leaving mine. His hand cupped my cheek now, warm and grounding. "But you didn’t have to. Not then. I came in because I was scared for you. Because I care. And I’m not going to stop because you hit a breaking point."

I stared at him, searching his eyes for any sign of hesitation. There wasn’t any.

My throat burned again.

“I wanted to disappear,” I whispered. “Just for a while. Just to not feel anything.”

“I know,” he said again, and then leaned forward to press his lips to mine.
His breath ghosted across my face, and his other hand slid gently around the back of my neck, pulling me in closer. We sat like that for a long moment—his lips kissing me, his hands holding me like I was something precious instead of broken. It was warm. Comforting. Something I didn’t know I needed for a long time.

“You don’t have to do this alone,” he murmured, when we finally pulled away.

I let my eyes fall closed, one of my hands sliding up to rest lightly against his chest. His heart was beating a steady rhythm under my palm. He was so solid. So real. So... here. Never leaving.

“I didn’t want you to see me like that,” I confessed, voice so small I barely heard it myself.

“Tough,” he whispered back. “You don’t get to scare the hell out of me and then hide in the dark forever.”

That earned the faintest huff of a laugh from me. My first in hours. Maybe even what felt like days.

He shifted again, wrapping an arm fully around me, tugging me into his chest. My head tucked beneath his chin, his cheek resting against my hair. His palm never left my cheek—it just followed me, always touching, always steady.

“I love you, you know,” he murmured into my hair. “Even when it’s hard. Especially then.”

I didn’t say it back yet. Not because I didn’t feel it—but because I couldn’t get the words out without shattering again.

So I just held onto him tighter.

Let him hold me like I wouldn’t break again. Even though I probably would.

And for the first time in days—

I let that be enough. And I nodded.

The war left pieces of me scattered across too many battlefields, but the part that’s still breathing… maybe it can learn to live again.

Chapter Text

She was breathing.

Slow. Steady. Finally asleep.

I hadn’t realized how much that sound mattered to me until the night I nearly lost it.

Now I couldn’t stop listening.

The room was nearly pitch-black, only faint silver light from the skylights spilling in through the window. Spensa was curled beside me, one hand half-tucked under her cheek, the other draped across her middle. I’d barely convinced her to rest tonight. Her smile still faltered when she thought nobody was looking. She still apologized to me for things that didn’t need apologies.

She still carried too much for one person.

My eyes traced the curve of her jaw, the rise and fall of her back, the way her eyes look almost peaceful once asleep. I wanted to close my eyes. I didn’t.

Instead, I looked at her wrist.

I remembered how the burn had re-opened for the second time—badly. She hadn't even called anyone at first. Of course she hadn’t. She’d let it fester until it was angry and red and bleeding, skin around it hot and raw, accompanied by a deep gash in the middle.

She had said it didn’t hurt. But her hands had been trembling.

It was wrapped now, medicated. Properly taken care of. But it still looked awful. Still made me sick with how long she must’ve been hiding her pain and feelings. Bearing it like she thought pain was something she deserved.

Stars, I hated that.

My gaze drifted higher—across the faint bruises at her shoulder, the healing scrape near her collarbone, the fading line along her temple where she'd bled after Evensong.

So many wounds.

And those were just the ones I could see.

I shifted carefully, just enough to brush my knuckles along her arm, not to wake her—just to remind myself she was real. Here. Alive. Safe.

She didn’t stir.

I let out a slow breath, the kind that sounded like it’d been buried in my chest for too long.

I almost lost her.

Not just in the battle. Not just in Evensong or the chaos after. But here. In this room. On the floor with the lights off and the door locked. She’d been slipping and I hadn’t seen it fast enough. I should have noticed. I should have known.

Instead, she broke.

And I couldn’t put her back together.

I could only be there. Pick up the pieces with steady hands and hold them until she felt safe enough to let go.

I wasn’t sure she’d ever let them go completely.

But she was here.

And she was breathing.

I reached out, brushing a stray lock of brown hair from her forehead. Her skin was warm beneath my fingertips. Her lashes flickered just a little at the contact, but she didn’t wake.

She trusted me enough to sleep. That almost broke me.

Because this woman—this fierce, unstoppable, infuriating, incredible woman—had fought entire wars with less than what she carried now. And even after all that, she’d let me in. Let me hold her while she fell apart. Let me see her not as a warrior, or a pilot, or a hero—

—but as a person.

I’d never take that for granted.

I’d never take her for granted.

Not the sound of her voice, grounding me in ways nothing else could.
Not the way she bit her lip when she was trying not to cry.
Not the way she still checked the mission schedule every morning out of habit, even when there was nothing left to fight for.

Not even the faint sound of her breathing evenly.

Because once, I thought I’d never hear it again.

And that possibility still haunted me. Would probably continue to haunt me forever.

I let my hand settle over hers, just lightly, her skin warm beneath mine. Her fingers twitched once in her sleep, then stilled again, curled beneath mine.

I closed my eyes, finally, and whispered so softly it almost didn’t count:

“I’m not going anywhere, Spin. Not ever.”

She didn’t respond. But she didn’t need to.

She was still breathing. And that was enough.

⚔︎ ✦⋆✧⋆✦ ⚔︎

I shifted again, just slightly, my eyes adjusting to the silver light slowly as I took in more of her.

And that’s when I saw them.

The bruises.

Faint, yellowing now, but still visible sat the back of her neck. A cluster of discolored marks low beneath head—ones I hadn’t noticed before. They were the kind of thing you wouldn’t see unless you were looking from just the right angle, unless the light hit them a certain way.

My breath caught. I knew what those were.

She’d told me, after the battle. Hesitantly. Quietly. I’d asked, gently, because I had to know. Because when I finally got to her—after the chaos of Evensong, after command fell quiet and the smoke cleared—she looked... off. Not just exhausted, not just bruised or burned.

But hollow.

I remember her hand brushing that exact spot, once. Like she was remembering something she didn’t want to say.

And then she told me. One sentence. No details.

"They jabbed me with something," she’d said. "To inhibit my Cytonic abilities."

I’d nodded like I understood. Like I wasn’t boiling alive with the image of someone hurting her like that. Holding her down. Forcing something into her body.

She didn’t tell me who. And I didn’t ask.

Because I knew who it was. It had to be Brade.

Now, looking at those bruises again—visible only because her shirt had shifted slightly down her collarbone—I wanted to scream.

They did that to her. While I was lightyears away. While I was fighting on the other side of the galaxy, thinking if I just won fast enough, I could get to her in time.

I didn’t get there in time.

I wasn’t there when she needed me most.

And the worst part?

She hadn’t shown a flicker of emotion when she told me. She hadn’t gotten angry. She’d said it with the same flat tone you’d use to talk about folding reports. Like it wasn’t worth making a big deal out of. Like it was something to be brushed away and forgotten.

It wasn’t. Not to me.

I looked at her sleeping face again, the shadowed curve of her cheek, her lashes against her skin. Her breathing was still steady. But those bruises—fading or not—felt like brands burned into *me* now. And I knew I’d never forget them. Not as long as I lived. Not as long as I stood here, breathing and alive.

Because guilt didn’t fix what had already happened.

But stars, I felt it. Every inch of it. For every moment she suffered in silence. For every bruise and scar she tried to pretend didn’t matter. For every time she smiled and said “I’m fine” when she wasn’t.

My heart ached in my chest like it might fall apart.

My hand tightened over hers.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, voice cracking. “I should have been there. I should have—”

I stopped.

I leaned down, pressing a careful kiss to the unmarked side of her neck. Then one just below her ear. Then, because I couldn’t help it, one to her temple.

She shifted slightly at the last one, mumbling something incoherent, then stilled again.

I held her closer, her wrist still under my hand, the soft rise and fall of her chest brushing against mine.

I hadn’t been there then.

But I was here now. And I wasn’t leaving.

Not for the stars.
Not for command.
Not for anything.

She’d been strong enough to survive everything.

Now it was my turn to be strong enough to help her heal.

⚔︎ ✦⋆✧⋆✦ ⚔︎

Her breathing shifted.

Not much. Just a slight hitch in her breath as her fingers twitched beneath mine.

I held still. I didn’t want to wake her if she wasn’t ready, but—

Then her lashes fluttered. And she blinked blearily into the dim room, eyes unfocused and hazy with sleep.

“Jerkface?” she mumbled, voice hoarse. Barely audible.

Stars.

I smiled before I could stop myself. Not because the use of my callsign—the one that *she* gave me—meant she was okay—she wasn’t. Not yet. But because she said it like a question. Like she wasn’t sure if I’d still be there.

“I’m here,” I whispered, brushing my thumb along the back of her hand.

She blinked again, this time slower. Her eyes were bloodshot, rimmed with the remnants of dried tears, and her cheeks still slightly red.

And still, she was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.

Her gaze moved to my face, like she was trying to read me in the dark. Then she frowned faintly and tried to lift herself up.

“Careful,” I murmured, slipping a hand behind her back to help.

She hissed as she shifted, her hand instinctively flying to her bandaged wrist.
Right. The burn.

“Don’t move too much,” I added. “You tore the bandage a little earlier when you were—” I hesitated. “When you fell asleep.”

When you were falling apart.

Her eyes flicked away. She bit her lip, and I knew she remembered everything.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, barely audible.

“No,” I said immediately, sitting up more and gently cupping her face. “No, Spin. Don’t do that.”

She leaned into my touch—but just barely. Like she was afraid she didn’t deserve it.

“I lost it,” she said, voice cracking. “I—I didn’t mean to. I just dropped the stupid mug and—stars, Jorgen, I shouldn’t’ve—I—”

I pressed my thumb gently to her cheekbone. “Hey. Stop. You’re allowed to break down.”

Her throat bobbed. She didn’t look at me. “I felt so… pathetic.”

“You’re not.”

“You didn’t see me,” she said. “You didn’t see half of it. I was curled up on the floor. Crying like a coward. Saying horrible things—thinking horrible things.”

“I saw you,” I told her, more quietly this time. “I see you. I always do.”

She swallowed hard, tears welling again in her eyes—but not falling. Not yet.

“I don’t want to be broken,” she whispered. “I’m supposed to be strong.”

“You are strong,” I said, shifting closer, forehead brushing hers. “But strength isn’t never breaking, Spensa. It’s surviving. It’s healing. It’s letting someone in when every instinct says not to.”

She was trembling again. I slid my hand to the back of her neck, steadying her. My other hand stayed cradling her jaw. She was warm beneath my palms, alive and trembling and real.

“I don’t like this,” she admitted, gaze falling to the floor briefly. “What if I keep falling apart like this?”

“Then I’ll be here to catch you. Every time.”

The silence that followed was so quiet it almost ached. Her eyes closed, but not like she was shutting me out—more like she was absorbing my words.

“Why are you so good to me?” she murmured, voice so soft I barely heard her.

“Because you’re you,” I said. “And because I love you.”

That cracked her wide open.

Tears slipped down her cheeks, slow and quiet. She didn’t sob this time. Didn’t crumble. She just leaned forward until her forehead rested against my shoulder and her arms slowly, hesitantly, came around my waist.

I pulled her fully into my lap, arms wrapping around her like I could shield her from every bad thing that had ever happened. Like I could make up for the war, the trauma, the pain she’d buried so deep she forgot how to let it out.

I couldn’t.

But I could hold her now. And she let me.

We stayed like that for a long time—her breathing evening out again, her body gradually relaxing in my arms. I kept one hand gently moving across her back, the other tangled in her hair, and her heartbeat slowly, slowly, calmed beneath my palm.

“I love you too, you know,” she said eventually, voice muffled against my shirt. “Even when I’m a mess.”

“I know,” I said, kissing the top of her head. “And even when you are, you’re my mess.”

That earned a weak, half-laugh. A breathy one. A little raw.

She pulled back enough to meet my eyes. “Thank you.”

“You never have to thank me,” I said. “Just… let me be here. That’s all I want.”

She nodded slowly. Her hand found mine again, fingers threading together clumsily, and she exhaled like she hadn’t breathed freely in weeks.

And just like that, the pieces didn’t feel so scattered anymore.

Not fixed. Not magically okay.

But less sharp.

Less lonely.

There were still bruises, still breaks. But she was here. And I’d keep showing up until she remembered how to stay.