The city woke slowly, cautiously, like an animal testing whether the danger had truly passed.
Sirens remained silent. Emergency lights glowed faintly. People stepped out onto balconies and rooftops, staring at the scarred skyline where something impossible had briefly rewritten reality.
On the highest ruined tower, the frame stood dormant—kneeling, steam rising from its armor like breath.
Inside, the boy and the girl were quiet.
Not because there was nothing to say.
But because everything had changed.
He was the first to move.
He shifted slightly, and the motion echoed through the cockpit, through her, through the lingering synchronization that still hummed between them like a live wire.
"…I remember you now," he said.
She didn't answer immediately.
She already knew.
He could feel it—the way her emotions trembled, the way she braced herself like someone waiting for a blow she'd been struck by before.
"I remember the first time I saw you," he continued softly. "You scared me. You were smiling like the world was ending, and I didn't know whether to run or follow."
Her breath caught.
"I remember holding your hand in the cockpit," he said. "I remember how it felt when we moved together. How it felt when we didn't."
The cockpit lights dimmed, responding to the emotional resonance rather than alarms this time.
"I remember dying," he said quietly. "And the last thing I felt… wasn't fear."
He turned toward her.
"It was regret. That I didn't choose you sooner."
She finally spoke.
"…I remember watching you disappear," she said. "Over and over. Different endings. Same pain."
Her voice trembled, but she didn't stop.
"I remember being called a monster. A weapon. A failure."
She swallowed. "And I remember you looking at me like none of that mattered."
The synchronization pulsed—steady, deep, no longer spiking wildly.
For the first time, it felt settled.
"I was afraid," she admitted. "That if you remembered everything… you'd hate me."
He frowned. "Why would I?"
"Because I dragged you into war," she said. "Because I needed you. Because I couldn't fight alone."
He reached out.
This time, there was no rule against touching.
His hand closed around hers.
"You didn't drag me," he said. "I followed you."
Her eyes widened.
"Back then," he continued, "and now. Not because of destiny. Not because someone paired us."
"But because I wanted to."
Her shoulders shook.
"…You always say that," she whispered.
"Then maybe," he said gently, "it's because it's always been true."
They returned quietly.
The frame sealed itself beneath the city once more, and by the time they emerged into daylight, they were just two students again—dusty uniforms, tired eyes, hands still lingering too close.
The difference was this:
They no longer pretended not to belong together.
That became obvious immediately.
When they walked through the school gates, conversations stalled. Heads turned. Whispers followed.
Someone muttered, "Are they… holding hands?"
Another voice replied, "Weren't they always?"
The boy glanced sideways. "We're being stared at."
She leaned in slightly. "Let them."
That single sentence did more to steady him than any training ever had.
Class was impossible.
Not because of danger.
But because everyone noticed.
The teacher paused mid-sentence when she saw them seated together again.
"…Is there something you'd like to share with the class?" she asked pointedly.
The boy panicked.
The girl didn't.
She rested her chin in her palm, calm, unbothered. "No."
The teacher stared.
"…Very well."
Behind them, a student whispered, "Bold."
The boy leaned closer. "You're enjoying this."
"Just a little," she murmured back. "I spent too many lives hiding."
His chest tightened.
They were summoned after school.
Not by teachers.
By the people who never appeared on official schedules.
The room they were brought into was white, sterile, windowless. A long table. Screens lining the walls. Observers behind glass that reflected their own faces back at them.
The boy clenched his fists.
She didn't.
She leaned back in her chair, eyes sharp, defiant.
A voice spoke through hidden speakers.
"You exceeded synchronization limits."
"Yes," she replied. "We did."
"Do you understand the risk?"
The boy answered this time. "Do you understand what happens if we don't?"
Silence.
Another voice joined. "Emotional dependence compromises operational efficiency."
She smiled coldly. "That's what you said last time too."
The room stiffened.
"You erased us," she continued. "Reset us. Tried to build something better."
"And now?" the voice asked.
She reached for the boy's hand—openly, deliberately.
"Now you're afraid," she said. "Because you can't control us."
The screens flickered.
Data spiked.
The observers whispered urgently to one another.
Finally, the first voice spoke again.
"You will continue operating. Under supervision."
The boy scoffed. "Generous."
"But understand this," the voice added. "If your bond destabilizes reality again—"
She leaned forward. "Then stop sending replacements."
Dead silence.
The implication hung heavy.
Eventually, the door opened.
"You're dismissed."
Outside, the air felt lighter.
The boy exhaled deeply. "That went… surprisingly well?"
She shrugged. "They've learned."
"Learned what?"
"That love doesn't weaken us," she said. "It terrifies them."
He smiled.
That evening, they sat on the rooftop.
The same one where everything had first started unraveling.
The city lights flickered below, steady now. Ordinary. Fragile.
He lay back, staring at the sky. "So… what are we?"
She tilted her head. "You're asking now?"
"I feel like it's overdue."
She considered him for a long moment.
"Once," she said, "we were partners because the world forced us to be."
She shifted closer.
"Now," she continued, "I want to be with you because I choose you."
His heart skipped.
"And if the war comes back?" he asked.
She smiled—soft, fierce, unmistakably her.
"Then we'll face it together."
He reached out, brushing his fingers against hers.
"Always?"
She laced them together.
"Always."
Far below the city—
In a place without light or sound—
The replacements watched.
Learning.
Adapting.
Noticing something they could not calculate.
Attachment.
And for the first time—
They hesitated.