I held Natalia for a long time.
Neither of us spoke. We didn't need to. The bond hummed between us, carrying emotions that words would only cheapen. Her fingers traced patterns on my chest, following the lines of muscle that six months of brutal training had carved into flesh that used to be soft and useless.
Eventually, she pulled back.
"Your mother is downstairs. Probably crying into her teacup and pretending she's fine."
"She's not the crying type."
"Everyone's the crying type when they learn their son is a cosmic experiment designed by an eldritch horror." Natalia's voice was dry, but her eyes were wet. "Trust me. I've been crying into my pillow for three days straight while you were off kissing other women."
"That's different."
"Is it?"
I didn't have a good answer to that.
