I hated silence.

Not the kind that blankets a quiet room. Not the kind that clings to late nights with a heartbeat in your ears and your breath echoing off your chest. That silence was peaceful. Earned.

No—this was the other kind. The kind that came after winning.

The kind that followed too much noise. Shouts, boots, broken steel, singed fur. That silence you get when the chaos is over and you’re left with the sound of your own doubts turning over in your skull like wet stones.

I was lying on my side in the wide bed I didn’t deserve. Still in my bodysuit—unzipped halfway, peeled down to my waist. My fur felt stiff. My thighs still ached from the sprint. My fingers were stained with soot and old sweat, curled on the sheets like they didn’t know what to do now that they weren’t clenched around a weapon.

We’d won.

That should’ve meant something.

I didn’t feel strong. I didn’t feel anything but… hollow. Not broken. Just scraped out. Like the fight had taken something I hadn’t expected it to reach.

I buried my nose in the crook of my arm. Inhaled. I didn’t smell like victory. I smelled tired. Unfocused. Like someone pretending to be a hero long enough to fool the crowd.

I heard the door creak.

Didn’t flinch.

There was only one person who would open it that way. Slowly. Gently. Like she wasn’t entering a room but slipping into a dream.

Valda’s footsteps were barely audible, but the weight of her was undeniable. She moved like someone who owned every step—slow, controlled, unshakable. Like gravity shaped itself to her.

She didn’t say anything right away. Just the soft click of ceramic on wood as she set a cup down on the bedside table.

I didn’t look up.

“I thought you might want tea,” she said.

Her voice was… velvet. Not the silky kind. The heavy kind. The kind that rubbed against your skin with purpose.

I lifted my eyes. The cup was steaming. Pale and honey-sweet smelling. I didn’t ask what kind. It didn’t matter. If Valda brought it, it would taste like comfort.

She stood beside the bed, tall and warm and quietly watchful. She wasn’t armored like before. No suit. Just a simple wrap that hugged her hips, something loose draped across her chest that let the full lines of her body peek through with every shift of her weight. Her arms were bare, strong, freckled at the shoulders.

She didn’t push. Just watched me.

“How long have you been up?” she asked, finally.

I turned onto my back. My voice rasped.

“Since they left.”

Valda’s mouth curled, not a smile. Not quite.

“They left six hours ago.”

I nodded. Blinked at the ceiling.

“They wanted to celebrate. I didn’t.”

She sat at the edge of the bed. Not beside me. At the edge—close enough to feel her warmth, far enough that I could pretend I didn’t want more.

“Because it didn’t feel like a victory,” she said.

Not a question.

I exhaled. Long and slow.

“I should’ve been better,” I said. “Faster. Smarter. Someone they could’ve leaned on instead of the other way around.”

She didn’t move.

I hated that. That she let my words hang like that. Not rushed. Not dismissed. Like she was weighing them for what they were, not what they made me feel.

“Kiva,” she said.

Just my name.

I felt my throat tighten.

She turned, finally, and slid closer. Her hand found mine on the bed, slow, warm fingers threading through my tense ones.

“You were brilliant,” she said. “You held the line. You turned the tide. You saved people who would’ve died if you hadn’t been there.”

I clenched my jaw.

“But not everyone.”

She squeezed my hand.

“No. Not everyone. But that’s not the same as failing.”

I looked at her.

She met my eyes. And I hated how it made my chest ache.

Her gaze wasn’t judgment. It was gravity. The kind that pulls at you no matter how high you’ve leapt.

I didn’t want to cry. I didn’t. I wanted to sit up. To nod. To say something snarky. Something with bite.

But my bottom lip shook.

And Valda moved.

She didn’t ask. Didn’t wait. She reached over and pulled me gently—arms around my back, cradling me forward until my head was on her chest and her chin was resting on my crown.

Her arms were strong. So fucking strong. And her scent was warmth. Clean sweat and whatever she steeped in the tea. I felt myself melt. My muscles unlocked, one by one.

I buried my face in her collarbone.

She held me there. One hand on my back. The other stroking down my spine. No words. Just her breath, steady against my ear.

I wasn’t sobbing. Just breathing in stutters.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” I whispered.

“You’re learning,” she said.

I clung to her. Like I could anchor to that voice.

She shifted, slow, drawing me fully into her lap now, my legs folding on either side of hers. I could feel the difference in us like this. My body, all light and twitchy. Hers, solid. Warm. Contained. Her hands never rushed. One on my thigh, the other low on my back. Holding me without pressure. Like I was already meant to be there.

Her robe loosened a little with the movement. I felt skin beneath it. Warm and smooth.

And then—I felt it.

Between us. Underneath me.

Her cock.

Not hard. Not yet. Just… present. Thick and real beneath the soft fabric. I froze. Not out of fear. But realization. Memory. I’d felt it before in moments like this, brushed against it accidentally, known it was there in theory.

But now?

Now I was in her lap.

Straddling her.

And her fingers didn’t stop moving.

My thighs twitched.

“Kiva,” she said, low now. Her voice was never rough. It deepened when she needed you to listen. “You don’t need to be strong with me.”

“I don’t want to be weak,” I breathed.

“You’re not.”

Her hand slid down, settling on my hip.

“You’re tired. You’re hurting. You’re searching.”

She leaned in. Her lips brushed my cheek.

“Let me hold you through it.”

I closed my eyes.

And nodded.