Solenne’s hair clings to her cheeks, rainwater sliding down the sharp line of her jaw as she stands in the silent depot, her blue uniform shirt damp and translucent at the collar. Black streaks of mascara smudge beneath her eyes, but she doesn’t wipe them away. Instead, she finds herself drawn toward the empty bay, where Varik waits, hands shoved hard into his jacket pockets, shoulders hunched as if against the storm and everything else he can’t control. His gaze flickers up when she enters. There is something raw in his eyes—pleading and terrified, lips parted like he’s holding onto a confession he has no words for.

She hesitates, shifting her weight onto one foot, sneakers squeaking on the slick floor. Her breath is unsteady. “I didn’t come for an apology,” she says, voice tight. “I came because I had to know what it would feel like to see you and not run.”

He looks at her like she’s burning. “Does it hurt?” he asks. The words tremble between them.

Solenne steps closer, arms wrapped tight across her chest. The echo of their old patterns—craving and fear—lingers between their bodies, but she doesn’t flinch. “Yes. Every time,” she whispers.

Varik’s face twists. He moves before he can stop himself, closing the space, hands gentle at first on her waist, then desperate, pulling her close. Their mouths find each other in the dark, lips tasting rain and salt. The kiss is clumsy, fierce, all the words they never said pressed between furtive inhales. Varik’s hands shake against her ribs; Solenne slides trembling fingers beneath his shirt, seeking heat, forgiveness, a home. Their hips grind together, bodies molded in silhouette, breath fogging the glass behind them.

“You can still leave,” Varik mutters against her throat, voice hoarse, undone.

She shudders, her answer a gasp. “Not tonight.” Her fingers fumble with his belt, skin flushed and slick. He lifts her with sudden strength, shoulders squared, and backs her onto the empty fabric seat, rain-damp uniforms tangling on the floor. Every movement is hungry—needy and raw, as if they can only speak now through touch, through the trembling confession of skin pressed to skin. Varik presses his forehead to hers, eyes clenched, and for a second their breath syncs. When they fall together, it’s silent save for the stutter of her pulse and his whispered name.

After, Solenne gathers her hair into a messy knot, cheeks flushed, eyes shining with something lighter than regret. “This doesn’t fix everything,” she says, her voice thick but unbroken.

Varik watches her, shirt half-buttoned, an ache in every exhale. “No. But it’s a start.” He traces the faint bruise on her hip, thumb soft, as if afraid she’ll vanish.

Across the depot, Breslan slouches near a vending machine, hands buried in his jacket pockets, watching the rain beat against the windows. For once, the swagger drains from him; he looks careworn and honest beneath the humming neon glow. Jyndra stands at his side, shoulders close but not touching, her eyeliner smeared and laughter gone. She studies her reflection in the black window, then catches Breslan watching.

“I was cruel,” she says, voice barely above a whisper.

He shrugs, glancing sidelong. “You were scared.”

Jyndra lets out a ragged breath. “So were you.” And without warning, she takes his hand—no games, no theater, just skin seeking skin. He squeezes, holding on as if afraid of letting go.

As slow morning light creeps across the depot, the four of them drift together on a battered bench—Solenne curled into Varik’s side, Breslan and Jyndra pressed thigh to thigh. There’s exhaustion in their posture, shadows beneath their eyes, but a flicker of hope in the way their fingers knit together. No one speaks. Instead, they watch dawn smudge the windows, uncertain but together, the past a bruise and the future unwritten. For the first time, they cling to the possibility that love—bruised, battered, and blinding—might be worth another day.