We fall onto the bed, a tangle of limbs and scars and mortal, messy humanity. The physical act of love is different now. It requires more communication, more patience, more deliberate adaptation to our broken bodies. But it is deeper. It is richer. It is entirely, beautifully real.
Through the mate bond, I feel his pleasure, his love, his absolute, unyielding devotion. It washes over me, a warm, soothing balm that heals the lingering, quiet terror of the cosmic war.
When we finally lie tangled in the sheets, our breathing slowing into a deep, rhythmic pattern, I rest my head on his chest. I listen to the steady, rhythmic beating of his heart.
We are broken. We are scarred. We are fragile.
But we are here. And we are whole.
The next morning, the escalation happens at 0700 hours.
I am
