He takes a deep breath. I brace for impact.
"Warren's assigned to ARC10."
"Fuck." It slips before I catch it.
"I know you haven't had the greatest relationship with my father—" he states with caution, moving closer to my throne of wheat bits. "And trust me, he's not exactly jubilant about his assignment either. But I figured because we're a family, we can still look out for each other."
His words burst through the little stone wall around my broken heart.
"Yeah, I can keep an eye on him," I say despondently. "But not because he's special. It's because he's going to be on ARC10, and it's my job. We're not family, Dean. We never really were."
Dean's face doesn't falter. He remains quiet, a sign which always means there's a skirmish inside his head.
"If you're not going to spit it out, find me later," I groan, hopping from the sack pile. I lower my eyes and shove my way through the crowd.
"You think we're not family—" he shouts over the noise of the marketplace as he follows a few steps behind. "Or maybe we never were, but that's not how I perceived it. When I needed something, you and Simon were there. Whenever you needed anything, I was by your side. I thought that's what having a family meant, Janika. It wasn't by name or contract or biology but by commitment and lo—" He shuts his mouth abruptly.
I spin to face him as the civs pass us—some staring openly, some too frantic to even realize we're standing in their path. He reaches out, grabs my knuckled hand from my hip, and pulls me farther into our secret place inside the markets.
We squeeze into our spot where Dean presses his body against me in the tight confines of the nook.
A realization strikes hard—it's not any touch I've needed. It's this one. It's all I want.
I lean into it. I push myself forward to match, fusing us together. He opens his mouth as if he's about to continue his tirade in our private corner.
He freezes.
We have no time for hesitation anymore. With my head in his hands and his neck engulfed by my arms, we reconnect lips that were never meant to be broken apart.
He steals the air within my body as we unravel.
These touches, these mouths, these tongues, and these teeth are relaying a critical message for Dean that I read loud and clear. I hope he hears my reply.
"You will always be mine," he whispers into my lips when he pulls away. "And I hope that I'll always be yours."
We gasp for air together as I raise a brow in skepticism. Mine? Yours? I thought we belonged to the URE.
"Family," he clarifies. "You'll always be my family."
I replenish my exhausted lungs to calculate the situation. He must not know. He can't know. He will never know. "I'll watch him. I promise."
I peer around the corner to check for militia proximity. This shadow-meeting could earn us the rod. Especially when there are two in such close proximity.
He rubs his thumb over my cheek as I face him again, and I flash back to the day on the flour-sack hill when I saw her hand entwine with his.
Connie. She must be pregnant. This is why Dean's here, hurling his emotions at me. If this is the only scenario in which I'll be presented with affection, I refuse to take it. I don't want to be the girl that they come to in their spare time.
I grab my stones again and build the wall back where it was before Dean threw himself on it.
"So, she's pregnant?" I retract from his grasp.
"I'd rather not talk about that."
"Why not? She must be if you've come all the way over here for this." My anger builds steam. "Is that all I am to you two now? Janika Lorn is nothing more than a good time? She's just a fun, broken, empty container to stuff when your real partner is already full?"
"What do you mean 'you two'?"
I don't want to play into his jealousy. "I'm not going to be your dumping ground. I refuse."
"Is that what he did?" Dean's voice rumbles. He pins his chin to his chest as he glowers at me with heat as violent as the surface of the sun.
"Nothing happened," I lie, holding my head high, hoping he doesn't see right through the curtain. "But I won't be used like this. Earth's Militia can have my body. No one else can."
One gear at a time, he shifts into his more natural, calm state. The tension around his eyes slacken into relief. He trusts me. He always has.
What am I doing?
He reaches out for me, and his long fingers close in, covering my hand completely. Why couldn't he have found me yesterday?
Finding my voice proves difficult as it somehow managed to lodge itself deep in my throat. "Is there anything else you wanted?"
"Wait for me," he says.
"What?"
"I want you to wait for me."
I become impatient. "Wait for you to, what, exactly?"
"Just—" He shrugs. "Wait for me."
For a brief second, I sense my trembling wall is close to collapse—that second where I say, "Yes, Dean. If we can rewind to those old, precious memories from our youth, I'll wait. If it erases what I did with Kai from the timeline of human mistakes, I'll wait. If it means that one day I can forget what happened because you'll never be hurt by my stupidity, then I'll wait. If it means that one day, contracts won't exist and you can be with me and I can choose to be with you, I'll wait."
But is any of that part of a working reality? No, it's not. It's another one of those fairy tales drudged out from the past.
I choke on the words that should come out—the ones that don't allow for hope of a future that will never happen, but my lips can't bear to form them. Instead, I lift my chin to kiss him again, to wish to tether us to my cot until it's time to evacuate the URE. But the thought of the soiled material burns the tips of my fingers.
Get me off this planet.
"I promise I'll look out for Warren."
We reluctantly join the crowded marketplace. He leans against my flour-sack cliff as he would if this were a scenario plopped in the middle of six months ago.
"Have you heard about Simon's placement?" he asks casually.
"He hasn't been home in months."
"He was assigned as head cook of the President's ship."
My jaw hangs open. "That's—at least I know he's got the best protection of any of us."
"You should go to him. I've heard some things. He's in pretty bad shape."
"He knows where to find me."
"You do realize he's gotten himself into a bit of trouble, don't you?"
"With his prostituting?"
Dean scowls. "No, but if that's what you want to call it . . ."
"What else do you call it? He uses his body to make a profit. He's whoring himself out to that slimy sack of shit to pay for something that won't exist in tee-minus eighty-nine days."
"Do you think your dad is one of those people who readily believes what's going on? That Simon Lorn would watch the broadcast, turn around and say, 'Oh spectacular, we're leaving. Let me pack up because I trust the government tells me the truth all the time.' Seriously?"
I hate it when Dean's right. "Where is he?"
"He's at the chapel. I heard it's not what you think it is." Dean caresses my arm mindlessly with his little finger. "You're right about Tahn, though. He's definitely a slimy sack of shit, but he's a slimy sack with a lot of creds."
I snort. It's too ridiculous.
"I'll go with you if you want."
"No." I shake my head. "I'll talk to him."
"Are you going to see him today?"
"Probably later."
We exchange news comfortably. I tell him about my VIPERs and about the Ag visits and the trees I've planted. I list off the different plants I want to store on ARC10 once we're out in space.
It's weird to remember this soon-to-be fact. When we're out there . . . in space.
When it is time to meet my unit at Level 9, I'm loath to pull my hand out of Dean's.
He walks with me. It's as if nothing's changed—we're still best friends, contracted partners, family. I sense his gentle presence around me. As always, I'm half-annoyed, half-thrilled it's there.
We reach the Rotunda. Without speaking, we break away in opposite directions.