Page 59 of Celestial Combat

The rain whispered between us, the neon glow casting long shadows against the rooftop walls.

“You have nothing to prove, Kali.”

I breathed in.

Out.

Then, slowly, I lowered the rifle.

Unclipped the magazine.

Put the gun away.

In the silence, I could feel Zane watching me. Like he knew exactly what I was thinking. Like he knew this wasn’t over.

Slowly, I turned.

The mist curled between us, neon reflections flickering across his sharp features. His dark eyes locked onto mine – steady, unreadable. But there was something else there, something elusive. A flicker of something I couldn’t name.

I had expected disappointment.

Expected that sharp edge of judgment, of frustration, of him thinking I wasn’t strong enough.

But he was anything but.

His expression was quiet, his gaze unwavering.

“Why aren’t you disappointed?” My voice was barely above a whisper. “I couldn’t do it.”

Zane tilted his head slightly, studying me like he was seeing something I couldn’t.

“There’s pride in knowing where the line is,” he murmured. “And strength in knowing there’s always a choice.”

His words settled in my chest, heavy and unexpected.

I swallowed hard, my pulse thrumming in my ears.

For a moment, neither of us moved. The city blurred around us, the rain a soft patter against the rooftop.

The rain had settled into a soft drizzle by the time we left the rooftop. The neon signs of Chinatown flickered in puddles on the pavement, casting the streets in blues, reds, and greens. The air smelled of soy sauce and sizzling meat, the scent drifting from late-night vendors tucked into alleyways.

Zane walked beside me, quiet, unreadable as ever, hands in the pockets of his black jacket. The tension from the rooftop still clung to us, but it had shifted into something stronger, more trusting.

A few turns later, he pushed open a door that barely stood out from the rest of the street – simple wooden sign with Japanese lettering. The moment we stepped inside, the city noise faded. The restaurant was dimly lit, small and intimate, with dark wood panels and soft paper lanterns hanging low. The smell of grilled meat and broth filled the air, warmth wrapping around me as we were led to a private corner.

Traditional seating. Low table. Floor cushions.

I slid into place smoothly, used to it. But when Zane lowered himself onto the cushion across from me, the sight almost made me laugh.

A man like him – tall, broad, built – sitting cross-legged on a pillow, in a quiet Japanese restaurant.

I bit the inside of my cheek to stop my smirk.

Zane caught it immediately. His dark eyes flicked to mine, one brow raising. “What?”

“Nothing.” I lifted the menu to hide my smile, but I could feel the weight of his gaze.

A slow, knowing smirk. “You think this is funny?”

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