The first real silence came two days after Hound Den.
Not the kind you get when people are scared to speak, or when a comm net goes dead and you can feel the shape of an incoming ambush in the empty air. This silence was different—earned, heavy, practical. The kind that only exists when the shooting stops long enough for everyone to notice how tired they are.
Garnet Ridge's hangar district didn't rest, exactly. It just shifted into a different mode: floodlights instead of muzzle flashes, weld arcs instead of tracers, grease under fingernails instead of blood.
Holt had secured the plateau, hauled prisoners, seized the Ash Hounds' stores, and—more importantly—locked down the data. The ledger. The archive. The proof. She'd put militia on the captured DropShip like it was a vault and posted guards that didn't blink.
Nobody had time to mourn properly. But the basin breathed easier.
And that meant we could finally do the thing that kept mercenaries alive longer than luck: maintenance done right.
My Dire Wolf sat in its bay like a sleeping animal with scars. Armor plates had been patched fast in the field—ugly weld beads, slapped-on composite, sealant smeared like tar. It held. It always held.
But "held" wasn't good enough. Not for what came next.
I had the forward torso panels open, work lamps clipped to the frame, hands inside the guts of my father's machine. The smell was familiar—hot insulation, machine oil, the faint tang of burned dust around heat sinks.
You don't really pilot a 'Mech. Not if you take it seriously.
You live inside its habits.
I tightened a coupling, checked a conduit, ran my fingers along a line of scorched wiring and decided it would be replaced, not "good enough." I could hear the basin outside the hangar—rain on metal, distant engines, men shouting at each other about shifts and parts like it mattered more than the dead.
It did.
The dead didn't need anything anymore.
The living needed machines that wouldn't fail when the universe reached for their throat.
A boot scuffed behind me.
I didn't turn. I didn't need to.
Taila stepped into the bay quietly, like she was still getting used to occupying space without apologizing for it. She carried a slate and a small tool pouch she'd started keeping on her hip—her version of a sidearm.
Jinx followed her, louder even when she tried to be quiet, like her energy couldn't help leaking out. She had a rag over one shoulder and grease on her cheek she hadn't noticed.
They'd been in the Highlander bay all morning, helping Holt's techs inspect and repair Jinx's leg actuator, then "helping" Taila organize comm gear and sensor arrays. Which had mostly meant Taila doing the work while Jinx narrated her own existence.
Somehow, they were both still there.
Somehow, Taila hadn't strangled her.
That alone suggested the world was changing.
Taila stopped a few meters from the ladder and cleared her throat. "Holt wants to know if your machine can do a perimeter sweep by tomorrow night."
"She'll get one," I said. I didn't look down. My hands were inside the Dire Wolf's torso cavity, and if you look away at the wrong moment you bleed. "Tell her it's conditional on replacement wiring arriving."
Jinx leaned around Taila's shoulder and called up, "He means yes."
I finally looked down.
Taila had her hood down today. Hair tucked back, face clean, eyes still sharp but less hollow than they'd been since the canyon. She was wearing a plain work shirt that fit too loose and utility pants that hid her figure like she was still trying to disappear. It wasn't vanity. It was habit.
Jinx, meanwhile, wore a cropped jacket that had no business being in a hangar and seemed to be daring the universe to comment. Under it was a tight top that looked like it had been chosen specifically to irritate anyone trying not to look.
She grinned up at me like we shared a joke.
We didn't.
"Do you need help?" Taila asked, voice neutral.
I considered it. Most people "helping" in a Dire Wolf bay meant they got in the way.
But Taila wasn't most people. She learned. She listened. She didn't touch what she didn't understand.
"Hand me the torque driver," I said.
Taila moved immediately, efficient, precise. She passed it up like she'd done it a hundred times.
Jinx made an exaggerated gasp. "Oh my god. He asked for help. He's evolving."
Taila shot her a look. "Quiet."
Jinx put a hand over her mouth. Her eyes sparkled with mischief anyway.
I went back to work, tightening the mount until the tool clicked, then ran a diagnostic on the cooling line.
Taila watched, not just staring at the machine but at my hands—how I moved, how I checked, how I didn't rush.
"Your father taught you," she said quietly.
It wasn't a question. It was a recognition.
"Yes," I said.
Taila's gaze held on the Dire Wolf for a moment longer. "He took care of it."
"He respected it," I corrected. "Taking care is easy when you're in love with something. Respect is harder. Respect means you don't treat it like it'll forgive you."
Jinx leaned against a tool cart and tilted her head. "That's the most romantic thing you've said all week."
I didn't answer.
Taila's mouth twitched, just barely. She caught it and smothered it like she was afraid the expression would cost her something.
They stayed while I worked.
That was the real difference.
In the past, people came into my space with a purpose—ask for a favor, ask for a job, ask for money, ask for protection.
Taila and Jinx stayed with no immediate demand. Taila's slate sat idle at her side. Jinx didn't fidget with a comm device.
They were… just there.
It wasn't comfortable.
It also wasn't unpleasant.
After an hour, I climbed down and wiped my hands on a rag. My forearms were streaked with grease. My shoulders ached the good way—work ache, not injury ache.
Taila held out a bottle of water without speaking.
I took it, drank, and handed it back.
Jinx made a noise like she'd witnessed a sacred ritual. "Oh wow. Hydration. Sharing. Next he's going to experience feelings."
Taila sighed. "You talk too much."
"Yes," Jinx agreed immediately, cheerful. "It's how I survive."
Taila glanced at her—really looked—and I saw the moment something shifted. Taila didn't flinch away. Didn't tighten. Just… observed.
"You survived by being loud," Taila said, voice quiet.
Jinx's grin flickered—not gone, just thinner. "Yep."
Taila nodded once, like she understood that better than she wanted to.
Then, to my surprise, Taila said, "Thank you. For the canyon."
Jinx blinked. "For—what? Being a heroic idiot on the hull?"
"For not letting them hit my node," Taila said. "For… noticing."
Jinx's expression softened, just for a second, like a mask slipping.
Then she snapped back into brightness. "You're welcome. I'm very protective of future co-wives."
Taila rolled her eye. "Stop calling me that."
"You'll miss it when I die," Jinx said lightly.
Taila's gaze sharpened. "Don't say that."
The words came out too fast, too real.
Jinx paused. Really paused.
Then she smiled, smaller this time. "Okay. I won't."
The hangar felt warmer for a moment, even with the rain.
I turned back to the Dire Wolf, checking the panel alignment, giving them space to exist without my attention—
—and that's when I noticed the change.
Not in their voices.
In their clothes.
Taila's work shirt—still loose—had been altered. The collar sat slightly lower than yesterday. The sleeves were rolled in a way that showed forearms. Small things. Deliberate things.
Jinx's outfit was even more obvious: jacket open, top fitted, the kind of look that had no purpose in a repair bay except being noticed.
They weren't dressed for comfort.
They were dressed for attention.
Mine.
I didn't react outwardly. I was practiced at not reacting. But my eyes tracked it anyway because I'm human, and I'm trained to observe changes that matter.
Their bodies weren't threats.
But intention is always a kind of threat.
I kept my voice even. "You're both dressed wrong for a hangar."
Jinx brightened like she'd been waiting for me to say something. "So you *noticed.*"
Taila's cheeks went a shade darker immediately. She looked away, then back, awkward and stubborn at the same time. "It's fine."
"It's not fine," I said. "You'll catch on something. You'll burn yourself."
Jinx leaned in conspiratorially toward Taila. "He cares. That's basically a love confession."
Taila hissed, "Jinx."
Jinx ignored her. "Tell him," she urged Taila, too cheerful. "Tell him you're trying to catch his attention."
Taila looked like she wanted the floor to open up and swallow her.
I didn't press. I watched.
Taila swallowed hard. "I… don't know how to do this," she admitted, voice quiet, like it hurt to say. "I've never—"
She stopped herself, throat tightening.
Never been chosen. Never been wanted. Never been allowed to want.
I understood the shape of what she didn't say.
Jinx's voice softened unexpectedly. "So we practice," she said.
Taila blinked at her.
Jinx shrugged as if this wasn't a serious moment. "You practice skills. You practice comm discipline. You practice standing your ground. Why not practice… this too?"
Taila's face burned brighter. "This isn't—"
"It is," Jinx cut in, still gentle. "It's a skill. It's terrifying. You're allowed to be bad at it."
Taila stared at her like she didn't know what to do with kindness that wasn't transactional.
Then Taila looked at me, eyes wide and steady and afraid.
"I don't want to be invisible," she said.
The words landed hard.
I took a slow breath. "You're not invisible."
Taila's throat worked. "Then… look at me."
She said it like a challenge.
Like a request.
Like a confession.
I did look.
Not like a predator. Not like an owner. Like a man who was trying to understand what he'd somehow become responsible for.
Taila stood there rigid, hands at her sides, trying not to shake.
Jinx stepped closer to her and hooked an arm around her shoulders like it was casual. It wasn't. I could tell by the way Taila's posture jolted, then slowly didn't pull away.
Jinx grinned at me. "Okay," she said. "Demonstration."
Before I could speak, she crossed the remaining space and kissed me.
It wasn't violent. It wasn't obscene. It was quick and deliberate—warm pressure, a taste of rain and something sweet she'd stolen from the mess hall.
It was also a statement.
Her mouth left mine and she looked up at me with bright eyes and no fear. "There," she said, as if she'd just completed a checklist. "Now he's been kissed. The prophecy is fulfilled."
Taila stood frozen, face flushed, eyes locked on me like she'd just watched a weapon fire and didn't know whether it was aimed at her.
I didn't move. I didn't grab Jinx. I didn't shove her away.
I simply looked at Taila, because Taila's reaction mattered more than Jinx's performance.
Taila's voice came out small. "You… you just—"
Jinx turned and, without hesitation, kissed Taila too.
Taila made a soft sound of shock—more breath than voice—and her hands lifted like she didn't know where to put them. Jinx's kiss was gentler there, less about proving a point and more about pulling Taila out of her head.
When Jinx pulled back, Taila's cheeks were red to the ears.
Jinx whispered, "See? Not fatal."
Taila stared at her, stunned. "Why did you—"
"Because you were spiraling," Jinx said simply. "And because you wanted it. Even if you don't know how to say it."
Taila's gaze flicked to me again—panicked, shy, determined.
I held still, giving her space to choose. I didn't want consent to be a mystery here. Not for her. Not after what she'd lived through.
Taila's lips parted. She swallowed. Then she stepped forward like she was walking into a firing line.
She stopped inches from me, eyes wide.
"I'm sorry," she blurted, then immediately looked like she wanted to die. "I don't know why I said that."
Jinx snorted. "Because you're adorable."
Taila glared at her, then looked back at me.
"I—" Taila started again. Her hands trembled slightly. She clenched them into fists to stop it. "If this is… if you don't want—"
"I'm here," I said quietly.
Taila blinked.
I kept my voice steady. "You're allowed to try. You're allowed to be awkward. Just don't force yourself into something because you think you owe it."
Taila's throat worked. She nodded once, hard.
Then she kissed me.
It was hesitant. Shy. A brief press like she was afraid she'd be punished for wanting. She pulled back too fast, face burning, breathing shallow.
Then, after a heartbeat of courage, she turned and kissed Jinx too—equally awkward, equally sincere.
Jinx's eyes widened in surprise.
Then Jinx smiled—real this time, not a mask—and kissed Taila back once, quick and approving.
Taila let out a mortified noise. "I—why—"
Jinx squeezed her shoulder. "You did it," she said.
Taila's face was a disaster. "That was—"
"A kiss," Jinx supplied. "Yep."
Taila looked like she might combust.
I watched them—Jinx bright and unafraid, Taila shy and shaking but standing her ground—and I felt something I hadn't planned on feeling in the middle of a repair bay:
Not possession.
Not lust.
Responsibility.
And something like quiet, dangerous hope.
I exhaled slowly. "You both need to change," I said, because my brain needed something practical to grab onto. "Hangar rules still apply."
Jinx grinned. "So noted. But also—he didn't say no."
Taila's gaze snapped to me again, terrified.
I met it. "I didn't," I confirmed.
Taila's shoulders dropped a fraction like she'd been holding them up for years.
Jinx leaned toward Taila and stage-whispered, "We're so in."
Taila groaned, muffled, and hid her face for half a second in her hands.
Then she lowered them and looked at the Dire Wolf, at the open panels and the work lamps and the grease, as if reminding herself where she was.
"This is… strange," she admitted quietly.
"Yes," I said.
Jinx sighed dramatically. "He agrees. Emotional growth. I love it."
Taila glanced at Jinx, then—carefully—looped her arm through Jinx's for the first time without being dragged into it.
It was small. It was awkward. It was real.
"I still don't like your mouth," Taila muttered.
Jinx laughed. "You literally kissed it."
Taila's face went red again. "That was—"
"Brave," Jinx said, softer.
Taila went still, then nodded once like she was accepting a strange new truth.
Rain hammered the hangar roof. Welders sparked in other bays. Somewhere a mechanic shouted about stripped bolts like it mattered more than anything.
And in the middle of oil and steel and scars, the three of us stood in a quiet pocket of something new—messy, untrained, and alive.
I turned back to the Dire Wolf and picked up my tools again.
"Alright," I said. "If we're doing this, we do it the same way we do everything else."
Jinx tilted her head. "Which is?"
I didn't look down at them as I climbed the ladder.
"Slow," I said. "Disciplined. And we don't break each other."
Taila's voice came small but steady. "Okay."
Jinx's came bright, but this time it wasn't just a joke. "Okay, boss."
And for the first time since my father died, the Dire Wolf bay didn't feel like a tomb.
It felt like a place something could be built—carefully—without pretending the world outside wasn't still violent.
Because it was.
And when violence returned, we'd meet it in steel.
But tonight?
Tonight we repaired what we could.
Machines.
And maybe, piece by piece, ourselves.