For a moment, Carver just watched her as Rosita settles next to him. As she strips her gloves off and offers out her hands—nothing but scars and bare skin, no armor to shield the delicate joints. Dulcinea squeaks and bats at Carver’s cheek, wanting to play or maybe just get a reaction, any reaction, and Carver wishes distantly that he felt something more than empty right now. Maybe in time, maybe not. He thinks people hit a wall eventually: when the losses stack too high to bear. Maybe this is finally his, after years and years of fighting wars for Pope.

He breathes out. Then, slowly, he strips his gloves off. Right, then left. He sets the gloves aside, the armor he’s carried for years upon years like an extension of himself. And then he takes her hands in his, smoothing his thumb along the ridge of her knuckles. It’s gonna be okay, she says, and maybe one day he’ll believe that.

In this place, at least, they aren’t dead.

Carver closes his eyes. He doesn’t have conversation in him right now, but he holds her hands in his, and breathes out.