The last farmer lumbers out, slow and heavy, like his joints locked up sometime after his second beer.

  After the door shuts, the room loses its edge. Talk drops to mutters. The fire burns low and steady. A chair leg squeals on the floor. Someone rinses a mug—too hard—and it clacks in the basin. Hano starts mopping, dragging the mop head through spilled ale and tracked-in mud, making the same slow loop over and over.

  I’m at the back table, wiping rings out of old wood. My rag knows the pattern now: left-to-right, then corners, then the bench where Bren always plants his boots like the world owes him a throne.

  A few weeks ago, I didn’t know where Maro kept the clean cloth.

  Now I don’t even have to look. My hands go: rack—rag—bucket—table—repeat. The place has grooves, and I’ve worn myself into them.

  Maro stands behind the counter counting coins like he expects them to bite. He glances up at the chair stack, at my hands moving like I belong, and grunts.

  “Buckets first in the morning,” he says. “Then floor. Don’t forget the corner by the stove. It stinks when it dries.”

  “Sure thing, boss,” I say, because “sir” got me mocked by Alkek one too many times.

  Hano drags a chair up onto the last table with a thunk and mutters, “Blessed sleep,” like it’s a prayer.

  Alkek appears in the back doorway, hair still damp, sleeves rolled, smelling like smoke and wet wood. His eyes catch mine and hold a beat too long.

  Maro notices. He squints like he’s counting, then points at Alkek like he’s about to throw the ladle.

  “Oh no you don’t,” he says. “You kept her out too late the other night and she was worse than the day she showed up. Upstairs. Both of you. And I want you breathing in the morning.”

  Alkek lifts both hands, all innocence. “Sure, Da.”

  Maro snorts like he doesn’t buy it for a second.

  Alkek slips out back anyway, like he’s just going to check the latch or the woodpile or some other lie that sounds responsible.

  I hang my rag, rinse my hands, and head up the stairs. The boards complain under my boots in the same three places they always do.

  In my room, I shut the door and start stripping out of my work shirt—

  Tap. Tap.

  I freeze.

  Then I exhale through my nose and cross the room. I lift the curtain a finger’s width.

  Alkek is outside, crouched on the little shed roof as if the roof was made for him—one hand on the frame, hair dripping, grin already waiting.

  He mouths, Stars are out.

  Then he leans in and whispers, “You coming?”

  Fifth time.

  He keeps finding reasons. I keep pretending I don’t see them. First it was a “break,” then booze, then nothing but him beside me until the quiet stopped feeling sharp. After that, my excuses ran out—and my feet started choosing.

  Tonight my mouth opens to say no.

  Instead I whisper, “Yeah.”

  His grin flashes—quick and pleased. From the shed roof, he tips his chin toward the back yard—toward the well—then drops into the dark without effort.

  I wait a beat, listening.

  Only the tavern settling—wood sighing, distant coughs, the soft hush of night.

  I ease my window up and lean out, scanning the yard and the lane.

  Just an alley cat slinking along the fence like it owns the place.

  I swing a leg over the sill and slip out, landing soft on damp earth. Valicar spreads the impact anyway, keeps my weight from hitting hard. I pull the window back down until it’s almost shut again, leaving it the way it was.

  Then I cross the yard quick and low.

  The well sits behind the tavern, half-hidden by the shed and stacked firewood. Alkek’s already there—a familiar shape in the dark, hands in his pockets, waiting.

  “Took you long enough,” he says, and the wink is too pleased to hide.

  He falls in step with me as if it’s always been this way.

  The lane is quiet. Shutters drawn. A dog barks once, then gives up. Our boots scuff soft on packed dirt.

  He walks beside me like he always does now—close enough that our shoulders almost brush, far enough that he can pretend it’s accidental.

  It isn’t.

  “So,” he says, easy. “Bren try anything tonight while I was out back?”

  “He told Hano he’d pay him three silver to flip my skirt.”

  He chokes on a laugh. “And Da let Bren live?”

  “He threw him out so fast Tomas barely had time to pay the bill.”

  He puts a hand over his heart, solemn. “Did Tomas at least get to finish his drink?”

  “No,” I say. “Tragically.”

  He makes a low, respectful sound. “A moment of silence for the fallen ale.”

  “Ale didn’t fall,” I mutter. “It got abandoned.”

  “Same thing,” he says, dead serious. “Left behind. Unloved. Cold.”

  I snort, and hate that it comes out warm.

  “Your priorities are insane.”

  “My priorities are consistent,” he corrects. “Bren thinks your skirt’s got a latch or something?”

  I snort. “It doesn’t.”

  “Three silver won’t even cover the healer’s fee,” he says. “Not after you fold him in half.”

  I roll my eyes, and the motion feels… normal. Like I’m not wearing a disguise or hiding the secrets of the universe.

  Don’t think about it.

  We climb the low rise beyond the last cottage. The village falls behind us into dark shapes and thin lines of light. Angel’s hull sits as a heavier shadow on the far ridge—metal buried and broken, half swallowed by dirt like a god’s carcass.

  Above it, the moons hang fat and bright, both edged in pink from Sol II’s low red smear at the horizon.

  We reach the spot where the grass is flattened from our last visits. Alkek drops onto it and pats the ground beside him.

  “House rule,” he says.

  “Only place I’m not allowed to serve anyone,” I reply, and sit.

  The earth is cool under my legs. The sky feels too big.

  Alkek unwraps a cloth bundle and sets it between us. Bread. Cheese. A curl of meat glossy with cold fat.

  “Before you accuse me of bribing you,” he says, “this is just extra. Tragic accident—some travelers ordered food, then left before it was done. I was near the kitchen and couldn’t stand the thought of it going to waste.”

  “Sure,” I mutter.

  Phoenix snarls under my ribs—low, ugly—and I want to crawl into the ground.

  Alkek’s eyebrow lifts.

  “Subtle,” he says.

  “Shut up,” I mutter, and take a piece.

  The first bite hits my stomach and disappears fast, but not in the panicked way from earlier weeks. Phoenix settles into a lower burn instead of clawing.

  Keep it leashed.

  We eat in quiet for a bit, passing pieces back and forth, letting the food cover for the things neither of us wants to say first.

  Alkek leans back on his elbows and watches the sky.

  “Never gets old,” he says.

  “It should,” I say. “It’s just stars.”

  “It’s not,” he says, and his voice is softer than usual. “It’s proof the day ended and the world didn’t fall apart.”

  I chew and stare up anyway.

  He shifts on the grass, glancing sideways at me like he’s about to step on a snake.

  “You ever think about staying?” he asks.

  The question lands in my ribs.

  My first instinct is to lie. My second is to joke.

  My third—lately—wins anyway.

  “I’ve thought about it,” I admit.

  His throat bobs as he swallows. He keeps his eyes on the sky, like he’s giving me space to take it back if I want.

  “And?” he asks quietly.

  I stare at my hands. My fingers look small in moonlight. Human.

  They’re not.

  “This place is…” I start, and hate how thin it sounds. “It’s small. It’s easy to pretend I’m—”

  I stop.

  Don’t say it.

  He turns to face me. Hazel eyes, green caught in them when the moon hits right.

  “I don’t care what you were,” he says. “You’re Sol to me.”

  My throat tightens. I shove another bite into my mouth like chewing can swallow it back down.

  “You’re going to get yourself in trouble,” I mutter.

  “With who?” he asks.

  With me, my brain supplies immediately, unhelpfully.

  I swallow hard and force air into my lungs. The silence stretches.

  He edges closer, shoulder almost touching mine. His fingers flex once against the grass.

  He looks at me like he’s about to say something, like he’s about to do something—

  and then he doesn’t.

  I lean in before my brain can catch up and make me ruin it.

  It’s barely a kiss. A quick, careful peck—warm breath, the faint taste of ale and smoke—and then it’s gone like it never happened.

  When we pull apart, his smile is crooked and stunned, like he doesn’t know what to do with his own face.

  I feel like my skin is too tight.

  “Uh,” I say brilliantly.

  He laughs under his breath. “Yeah.”

  We sit there a moment, both a little embarrassed, both pretending we’re not.

  “Don’t make it weird,” I mutter.

  He grins wider. “Too late.”

  Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.

  “Shut up.”

  He bumps his shoulder lightly into mine, careful. “Come on. If we stay out here, Da’ll ask questions. And I don’t have the strength for that kind of violence.”

  I stand and brush grass off my skirt, heart doing dumb things it has no right to do.

  We walk back down the hill side by side.

  The village lights look warmer than they should.

  Don’t get used to this.

  Morning comes cruel, not in poetry but in knuckles.

  Maro’s fist raps my doorframe.

  “Up,” he barks. “Capital run.”

  I sit up too fast. The bed frame groans under me.

  “Capital?” I croak, pulling the door open. “What about the buckets?”

  Maro waves a hand like he’s swatting the question away. “Hano’ll handle ’em. We need supplies—cheaper than our market. Flour, oil, nails, booze.” He jerks his chin at us. “And if you see that Keeper clerk with the face like a slapped fish, tell him I’m not paying three crowns for a box of ‘glow-glass’ that dies in a week.”

  He spits to the side like it’s the clerk’s name. “Bastard scammed me, then started talking magic nonsense about a ‘bat-tree’ and ‘ee-lek-truh’ like I’m supposed to clap.”

  Alkek’s voice drifts from the hallway—sleepy, amused. “He’ll love that.”

  Maro glares at him. “You love nothing but your own mouth. You’re both going—today and tomorrow. In and out. And don’t drag ass like last time. The only reason I keep sending you is ’cause the capital’s cheaper than getting robbed blind here.”

  He points at me with a spoon like it’s a weapon.

  “And you,” he says. “Don’t cause trouble.”

  “I never cause trouble,” I lie.

  Maro snorts. “And I’m a saint. Move.”

  We’re out the door with the cart and one horse to pull it, the list tucked into Alkek’s belt. The air’s cold enough to sting.

  Alkek swings up onto the bench, gathers the reins, and clicks his tongue. I climb up after him, boots knocking the wood, and settle in beside him.

  The road’s familiar now—fields cut into rough squares, stone walls, scattered cottages with smoke curling from chimneys. People nod as we pass. A kid waves like he’s flagging down a ship.

  A woman by a fence cups her hands. “Oi! Get some salt while you’re there—your da’s stew was sad last night!”

  Alkek calls back, “That’s ‘cause you don’t deserve seasoning when you still owe him money, Debra!”

  She laughs and flips him off like it’s a blessing.

  We don’t talk much at first. The cart rattles, the horse plods, and the cold keeps us honest.

  Our arms bump when the wheel hits a rut, and my stomach lurches—sharp and stupidly sweet.

  He glances over. “You alright?”

  “Yeah,” I say too quick.

  He huffs a small laugh and faces forward, pretending he didn’t notice.

  By midday, the capital comes into view—a sprawl of roofs and stone and narrow streets, dirt packed down by too many feet. A low wall circles it, patched and uneven. The gate is crowded: carts, goats, yelling, the smell of sweat and frying grease and horse.

  The city wall runs along Angel’s wreck like it’s just another ridge—stone patched into dark metal where the hull breaks the ground. Whole streets crouch in that shadow.

  Then I see what doesn’t fit.

  I’m staring before I even realize it—at the far-too-modern guards posted in front of a hatch.

  Alkek notices and leans a fraction closer on the bench, voice low. “Keepers. And their door.”

  He flicks the reins toward the main gate—carts piled up, guards yelling, everyone funneled through the same choke point. “That’s the king’s way. That’s ours.”

  Then his chin tips the other direction. “Best we keep our distance… unless I spot my buddy.”

  They’ve carved out their own slice right where the wall meets the ship: a compound wedged against Angel’s ribs, all straight lines and clean corners. And behind it—set into exposed hull—is a hatch. Steel frame. Rivets. A door that leads into the ship.

  Two Keepers stand by their gate in dark coats, rifles slung easy across their chests. Not bows or spears like the city guards—real slug-throwers. Old-world kind. And nobody crowds them. Nobody even walks too close.

  One of them lifts a little metal box to his mouth.

  “Gate two to yard,” he says.

  It crackles, and a voice answers back—thin and clear.

  “Copy. Yard to gate two.”

  A woman nearby flinches and pulls her kid closer. Nobody looks too long. Even the city guards keep their distance.

  I can’t help the small huff in my throat. “Guns and… radios, huh.”

  Alkek glances at me. “Ray-dee-ohs?”

  “Nothing,” I say fast. “Just a word I read once.”

  He keeps his eyes ahead, but tips his chin toward the box. “So you heard of ’em in Da’s old books, huh? They talk into it and somebody answers back. Could be two towns over, could be the other side of the world—depends what story you believe.”

  Then he nods toward the hatch without slowing the cart. “But those slug-throwers? That’s the real reason. Everyone else uses the king’s gates. Keepers have their own way in—straight into Angel. And they don’t share. Last fool that tried got shot full of holes by that old magic.”

  The market square is a mouth—wide, loud, full of teeth. Bigger than our village’s, sharper around the edges. Salted fish. Iron nails. Charms that swear they’ll get you pregnant, keep you alive, or make death quick.

  Alkek drags us straight to grain and starts bargaining like the price is personal.

  By the time he’s satisfied, the cart’s got flour, soap, lamp oil, nails—and, because Alkek can’t help himself, a bundle of dried herbs “so Da stops cooking like a criminal.”

  We start to pull away—

  —and the smell hits. Hot fat and baked bread, spiced sweet at the edges. My stomach clenches like somebody grabbed it.

  I try to keep walking.

  My body doesn’t let me.

  Alkek clocks it. He follows my stare, cuts two steps to a stall with a woman flipping meat-and-onion pies, and slaps a coin down like he’s done it a hundred times.

  He comes back with one wrapped in paper and shoves it into my hands. “Eat before you start looking at people like they’re made of steak.”

  “I wasn’t—” I start, but my gut betrays me with a low, humiliating growl.

  Alkek’s mouth twitches. “Yeah. Sure.”

  I take a bite. Grease and salt and heat hit my tongue and Phoenix settles—just a notch.

  We turn from the stall, and a local guard slides into our path like he’s been waiting for it—leather creaking, spear hanging loose in his hand like it’s just part of the outfit.

  His eyes slide past Alkek and stick to me. Too long. Too comfortable.

  “Toll’s gone up,” he says, all slick confidence. “Outsiders pay double.”

  Heat crawls up my spine.

  Phoenix lifts its head at the same time—quiet, eager, like it heard meat hit the floor.

  No.

  My fingers curl. Nails press into my palm hard enough to sting.

  Alkek steps a half pace closer—not big, not loud. Just enough to steal the guard’s line of sight, to make him look at Alkek’s shoulder instead of my face.

  “She’s with me,” Alkek says, calm as a barred door. “And Maro’s tab is paid.”

  The guard’s mouth curls. “Paid for today.” He hooks a thumb at the road like he owns it. “Yearly fee’s coming due. Hope I’m the one who gets to collect from your little shit-hole village. I like seeing who squeals and who begs.”

  His eyes slide past Alkek—stick on leather armor, lingering—then settle on me like I’m part of the toll.

  “And who’s this?” he says, voice going slick. “Maro finally turn that tavern into a brothel to cover his debts? I could take her for a spin and call it payment.”

  Phoenix burns hotter—hot enough my ears twitch, listening for the whispers that always wanted blood. My fist clenches tighter until my knuckles ache. Warm slicks my palm.

  I look down and my stomach drops: my nails are buried, punched little holes through skin like I used to on Jericho. Only now my teeth are dull, and I can’t even bite my tongue and taste copper to pull myself back.

  Alkek doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t even step forward. He turns his head a fraction, like he’s checking the weather.

  “You want to talk about fees?” he says. “Go tell it to Keeper Garos.”

  The guard’s expression twitches—small, fast.

  “Garos ain’t on duty,” he mutters, like saying it makes it true.

  Alkek’s smile stays right where it is. “Good. Then he’s got time to hear how you’re shaking down carts and running your mouth about local girls.”

  The guard’s eyes flick—just once—toward the Keeper gate and the rifles posted like statues. His grip shifts on the spear. Suddenly it looks less like a prop and more like something he’s unsure how to use.

  “You threatening me?” he says, but it comes out thin.

  “No,” Alkek says, still pleasant. “I’m saving you effort. You like collections? Keepers love paperwork. And Garos loves names.”

  The guard swallows, hard enough you can see it. He spits to the side like it’ll scrape his pride off his tongue.

  “Keeper’s bitch,” he mutters under his breath as he moves.

  Alkek hops up onto the cart, grabs my wrist, and hauls me after him. He clicks the reins.

  The horse lurches forward. The wheels rattle. We roll past like nothing happened.

  I keep my eyes ahead, jaw tight, until the market noise swallows it—and Phoenix finally settles.

  He glances at me once we’re clear. “You okay?”

  “Fine,” I say, too flat—like I didn’t just almost eat a man alive.

  He nods like he heard the lie and decided not to punish me for it. “Okay.”

  We finish the list, lash everything down. As Alkek checks the last knot, he digs in his pocket and pulls out something small.

  A cheap metal hairpin shaped like a little star.

  He holds it out with that careful casual he does when he’s nervous.

  “For your hair,” he says. “So you don’t have to wear that headband all the time.”

  My brain stalls.

  A gift.

  I take it carefully, like it might explode.

  “It’s ridiculous,” I manage.

  He grins. “Good. Then it matches you.”

  I snort despite myself. “Shut up.”

  “Put it in.”

  “No.”

  “Sol.”

  I glare. He just smiles wider—easy, oblivious. Or not.

  Valicar, I think, resigned. Round them off. Hide them.

  The headband stays on while it happens. A sharp, tight ache bites as nanites compress bone and cartilage—pressure like diving too deep, fast enough to sting behind my eyes. I keep my face blank. I keep breathing.

  A faint shimmer follows as the hologram settles in, smoothing four inches of tapering point into something human enough to pass.

  Only then do I yank the headband off.

  With a sigh meant to be dramatic—but mostly covering pain—I slide the star pin into place. Strands lift back from my face. It holds. Barely.

  Alkek’s grin softens. “Prettier already,” he says, casual. “Better than that old rag. Didn’t think you liked wearing it anyway.”

  His eyes flick to the side of my head—a beat too long—then away again like he caught himself looking.

  I look away fast because heat crawls up my cheeks.

  “Don’t get used to it,” I mutter.

  He huffs a soft laugh. “Yeah, I’m terrible at listening.” The cart creaks as he gets us moving.

  The way back starts fine.

  Clouds gather, but the road holds. The cart creaks, heavy but steady. Alkek talks about Maro’s face when he sees the bill. I pretend I’m not replaying last night’s kiss like it’s a crime scene.

  Then the weather remembers it hates people.

  Wind kicks up hard. Rain comes down in cold sheets, turning ruts into slick mud. The cart wheel hits a depression, skids, and the whole thing lurches sideways.

  Alkek swears, braces, tries to muscle it straight.

  The axle groans.

  A sharp crack.

  We both freeze.

  He stares at the wheel like it personally betrayed him. “No. No, no, no—”

  I crouch. There it is: a hairline fracture along the axle beam. Not snapped clean, but close. One more bad bump and Maro’s flour’s going face-first into the mud.

  He drags a hand through his wet hair. “We weren’t making it back by dark anyway—but now? We’re really not.”

  “There’s shelter?” I ask.

  He nods, jaw tight. “Wayhouse. Old barn. Half hour if the wheel holds.”

  “Then we go slow,” I say.

  I could unhook the horse and carry the cart myself.

  I don’t.

  I walk beside the rail instead, one hand steadying the load while the horse drags us through the mud. My weight would finish the axle if I climbed back on; I can feel it in every angry creak.

  Mud sucks at my boots. The wheel complains with each rut, and I give it a careful shove when it starts to slip. Alkek keeps the reins tight and curses under his breath every time the cart jars.

  We reach the wayhouse at dusk.

  It’s not much—stone foundation, timber walls, a sagging roof, and a lean-to on one side where travelers once kept animals. The door sticks, then gives with a wet groan.

  Alkek leads the horse under the lean-to and ties him off with quick, practiced knots. “Easy, Cinder,” he mutters—first time I’ve heard him say the name out loud. Cinder just stands there steaming in the cold, huge and patient, looking like he’s regretting every life choice that ended with him dragging our cart through mud.

  Inside smells like old straw and smoke. A fire ring squats in the center, and there’s a shelf of kindling like strangers have been keeping the place alive out of spite.

  We haul the supplies in first—flour, oil, nails—stacking everything that matters on warped boards and stones so it’s not sitting in the wet. Our cloaks are soaked from playing roof over the cart, but we drape them anyway, catching the worst of the drips.

  Alkek crouches by the axle and drags his fingers along the split. When the firelight catches the crack, his jaw tightens.

  “Tomorrow’s blown,” he says, low—like saying it makes it real. Then, even lower, “Da’s going to skin me.”

  “Maybe he’ll start with me,” I mutter, but my clothes cling cold to my skin and the joke comes out thin.

  We get a fire going. Heat pushes the cold back into the corners. Our shirts steam as we sit close enough to steal warmth—and I catch Alkek’s eyes dip, just once.

  Rain’s turned my shirt into a second skin. I tug at it like it’ll let go. He looks away and fixes on the flames like they’re the only safe place left.

  Alkek exhales. “Thank the Angel.”

  “Don’t,” I mutter automatically.

  He huffs a tired laugh, unwraps bread and cheese from a bundle he packed “just in case,” and holds it out.

  “Eat.”

  My stomach answers with a low growl.

  “I’m not hungry,” I lie.

  Alkek’s mouth twitches. “Mm-hm. Sure.” He nudges it closer. “Just take the damn thing.”

  I sigh like it’s a hardship, then eat. Phoenix eases—just a notch. The burn in my bones drops into something manageable.

  For a while we just eat and listen to the rain—until he finally breaks it.

  “I hate nights like this.”

  “Because the cart’s broken?” I ask.

  He shakes his head. “Because it feels like one of those nights where you lose people.”

  My chest tightens.

  “You lost your ma,” I say before I can stop myself.

  He nods once. “Yeah.”

  He picks at the edge of his bread. “After that, I started watching. Like if I watch hard enough, I can stop it from happening again.”

  His gaze flicks to me.

  “And you,” he says softly, “keep acting like you’re about to vanish if anyone gets too close.”

  I stare at the fire so I don’t have to look at him.

  “I don’t want to be a problem,” I say, and the honesty tastes like metal.

  Alkek’s voice stays gentle. “You’re not a problem.”

  “You don’t know that,” I whisper.

  He doesn’t argue. He says, “Then tell me what you can. Not everything. Just enough so I’m not guessing.”

  Rain pounds the roof.

  I could tell him the truth.

  I could tell him I’m not safe.

  But I can’t.

  So I hand him the smallest honest thing I’ve got.

  “For a long time,” I say, careful with every word, “I wanted to die.”

  Alkek doesn’t flinch. He nods, letting it sit between us.

  “And now?” he asks, quiet.

  I swallow. The truth feels paper-thin.

  “Now I don’t.” I stare at the fire because looking at him feels like stepping off a ledge. “And it scares the hell out of me.”

  A pause. Rain. The fire snapping.

  Then, softer, like I hate how much it matters: “I’m… happier here than I’ve been in a long time.”

  His breath catches. “Then stay,” he says. “Stay here—with me.”

  My chest aches in a way that isn’t hunger.

  “I’m trying,” I whisper.

  Something in his face loosens—relief, like he’s been holding his breath for days.

  “I see that,” he says.

  The quiet after that doesn’t ask for anything else.

  He shifts closer on the straw, not like he’s cornering me—just enough that his knee warms my leg through cloth. He lifts his hand, hesitates, then lets his fingers brush mine.

  I let them stay.

  A piece of damp hair has fallen across my face. He reaches up like he’s going to fix it—stops halfway, checks my eyes.

  I don’t pull away.

  So he tucks the strand back, careful, knuckles grazing my cheek like it’s something holy and breakable.

  My throat tightens for no good reason. I lean into his hand—just a little—before I can overthink it.

  His breath catches.

  “About the other night,” he says softly.

  Don’t make it a thing.

  Except it already is.

  “I know,” I whisper.

  His mouth twitches like he’s trying to pretend he’s still easy. “I keep replaying it.”

  “Yeah,” I say, and my voice comes out rougher than I meant.

  He kisses me again and my back lands in straw. He follows me down, right on top of me.

  He slides one hand under my shirt, palm flat against my ribs—like it’s anchoring him as much as me—waiting to see if I’ll bolt or bite.

  I go rigid.

  A faint flicker skates across my vision—like a blink that isn’t mine—and the HUD ghosts over the dark for half a heartbeat.

  [VALICAR: EMERGENCY GRAVITY ADJUSTMENT ENGAGED · EFFECTIVE WEIGHT REDUCED BY ~600 LBS · EST. SAFE RUNTIME BEFORE SYSTEM RISK: 8 HOURS]

  The straw stops protesting under me. The possibility of me crushing him just… disappears. He doesn’t notice.

  He stills anyway, eyes locked on mine—waiting for my choice.

  I nod once.

  Then he moves slow. Fingers find the wraps—knots on knots—and he works them loose. One. Then another. The cloth gives, and my lungs finally fill.

  He holds still for a breath, then pulls the makeshift cloth aside.

  One hand cups me—warm and steady—but the hitch in his breath tells me he wasn’t ready for how much of me fits his palm. His other hand hesitates, so I take it and guide it down slow.

  The blanket bunches around our legs. Knees knock. Cloth tugs and slides as we fumble closer in the small halo of firelight. Outside, rain keeps tapping. The fire pops once and settles.

  The hand I guide moves lower—down my hip, along the seam—then hooks my waistband.

  The fabric gives. His fingers slip beneath it and settle between my thighs.

  What if it takes this, too?

  What if I get pregnant?

  The thought hits like cold water.

  What if I pass it on—like Knight designed?

  A daughter who never gets to die—who wakes up hungry and stays hungry forever.

  Or a son who comes out wrong—born starving, built too strong—and I’m the first thing he ever learns to feed on.

  My stomach twists.

  What if I’m not a girl anymore—a furnace for…

  His fingers catch the right nerve and my hips answer before I can think—my body drowning out every thought until my mind goes blank.

  “F–fuck,” I whisper, surprised it even came out of me.

  The wave hits—then breaks—so hard my vision whites for a second.

  Tomorrow I’d remember what I am. Tonight, I let myself forget.