Page 72 of Fated in A Time of War
She’s got one hand on the kid’s shoulder, and the other twirls her carefully, gently, like they’re on some fancy ballroom floor and not a cratered piece of ruin clinging to hope. The child laughs. Spinning on bare feet that kick up little puffs of dust.
Alice laughs too. Head thrown back, hair catching the firelight like copper threads. Her eyes crinkle at the corners. Her mouth curves with something real.
And I feel something shift in my chest again. Not pain. Not rage.
Something dangerous.
She sees me watching.
The dance slows. The girl curtsies—crooked but proud—and Alice bows low in return, making a game of it. Then she walks toward me, each step deliberate, the crowd parting for her like they know something I don’t.
Her fingers brush mine.
She doesn’t say anything.
Neither do I.
There’s no need.
I step away from the firelight, and she follows.
We walk past the edge of the gathering, into the shadows where the air cools and the dust settles. The sounds of the camp grow muffled behind us—like we’re stepping through some invisible curtain into a place where the war can’t reach.
I stop.
Turn.
Look at her.
She doesn’t ask what I’m doing.
She already knows.
I kiss her.
Not like before. Not like the graveyard. This isn’t desperation or fury or the need to drown in something other than blood.
This is fire.
Mine.
She tastes like breath stolen from the edge of the world. Her hands are on my chest, my neck, my jaw. Grounding me. Pulling me in. I’m not careful. Not gentle. But I’m not cruel. I don’t know how to be soft, but she never asked me to be.
Her back hits the wall of the prefab shelter, and I brace myself around her like the world might fall and she’s the only thing I can save. She makes a sound—low and real—and I feel it in my bones.
When we finally pull apart, we’re both panting.
Her forehead rests against mine.
We don’t say anything.
We don’t have to.
Later, back in the bunk, it’s not loud. Not rushed.
Just… real.
Tangled limbs. Shared breath. Warmth.
