Seris hadn't meant to get lost.
Not physically.
Emotionally.
She sat on a rusted maintenance platform overlooking a thin stream of water far below. The echo was steady. Predictable. Safe.
Predictable things helped.
Her hands wouldn't stay still. Cloak fabric twisted between her fingers. An old nervous habit she hated because it gave her away.
"Emotional disarray," a composed voice observed,
"is unpleasant to witness."
She didn't flinch.
She did sigh.
"…Inkaris."
"Correct."
He stopped a sensible distance away.
Close enough to be present.
Far enough not to intrude.
He always did that.
"Here to lecture me?" she asked, tired.
"No."
That surprised her.
"Then why?"
"You are part of the unit. Unstable units cascade failure. Addressing this is efficient."
She snorted softly.
"Romantic."
"I do not perform romance," he replied. "Ardent did. Excessively."
A short laugh escaped her before she remembered she wasn't supposed to be laughing.
Silence lingered.
Not uncomfortable.
Just… waiting.
"I don't know what I'm doing," she admitted softly.
He said nothing.
So she kept going.
"I spent years inside rules. Systems. Chains that at least told me what shape the cage was. Now I'm… here. A fugitive. No status. No safety. No 'acceptable' future. Just… running. Hiding. Planning. Surviving."
Her throat tightened.
"And I'm relieved. Which feels like betrayal. Like I'm some kind of… broken thing finally glad to stop pretending."
She swallowed.
"And then there's Aiden. I care about him. I don't want to. I'm glad I do. I'm terrified I do. It feels like handing someone the blade and trusting them not to use it."
Silence.
Then calmly:
"Affection is not weakness," Inkaris said.
"Dependency is. The distinction matters."
She blinked.
"You fear dissolving into someone else," he continued. "Good. That means you will resist it."
Her eyebrows lifted.
"That almost sounds comforting."
"It should not. It is merely accurate."
She watched him.
"You sound like someone who knows exactly what this costs."
He did not immediately answer.
Which, for Inkaris, meant something.
"There was someone," he said at last.
Seris went still.
"He was… quiet," Inkaris continued. "Intellectual. Brilliant in a way that did not need announcing. He built worlds in thought. He believed if one disassembled reality down to its structure, answers could be created. He found comfort in order. In clarity. He said speaking with me felt like… standing somewhere chaos could not reach."
A small breath.
"I valued him because he never asked me to lessen. Or soften. Or pretend to be more human than I am."
Her heart tightened.
"And?" she whispered.
"He believed knowledge protected," Inkaris said softly.
"He believed understanding a system ensured survival."
A pause that echoed.
"He was incorrect."
He didn't describe what happened.
Didn't dramatize it.
He didn't need to.
Whatever it was… it didn't just kill.
It ruined.
Seris swallowed.
"You still care," she whispered.
"Yes."
"Still hurts?"
"Yes."
He didn't hide it.
Didn't embellish it.
He simply carried it and continued to stand.
Which somehow made it heavier and more dignified all at once.
They stayed like that a while.
Just breathing near each other.
Eventually, he spoke again.
"You do not survive love by being afraid of it," he said. "You survive it by refusing to erase yourself because of it."
She half-laughed.
Half-sighed.
"That sounds hard."
"Yes."
A beat.
"I believe you are capable of it."
That stunned her more than reassurance would have.
"…that sounded suspiciously like encouragement," she whispered.
He tilted his head.
"Statistically justified confidence."
She smiled.
A small, honest one.
"Thank you, Inkaris."
He inclined his head.
"Do not fall into the water. Retrieval would be irritating."
She laughed.
"Noted."
He left.
She stayed.
And for the first time since becoming a fugitive,
thinking about Aiden did not feel like drowning.
It simply felt… human.
And maybe,
worth daring.