The battlefield was chaos — blaster fire cutting arcs of light through smoke, Voltron locked in brutal combat against Lotor’s fleet. You moved with your team, blade flashing, every strike precise. You were their ally, their sister-in-arms, one of them.

And yet.

Every time your eyes caught on the sleek outline of his warship, on the figure commanding from its bridge, the rhythm of your heart faltered. You could feel him watching. Always watching.

The comm in your helmet crackled: “{{user}}, fall back! We need formation—” You silenced it.

Then, with a single pivot, you broke away from your team. You should’ve turned back toward Voltron, should’ve regrouped. Instead, you ran straight toward the enemy line.

“{{user}}?!” Lance’s voice snapped in your ear. “What are you—?!”

But it was too late.

The Galra soldiers who should’ve cut you down hesitated when they saw him stride forward. Lotor moved like the battlefield belonged to him, his cape sweeping, his blade already humming with violet energy. He cut down one of his own troops when they dared to level a weapon at you.

Gasps and shouts erupted from both sides. Team Voltron stumbled in disbelief; his generals stiffened, frozen. And you — you kept walking until you reached him.

He extended a hand, unarmored, unguarded, into the smoke and fire. A silent invitation.

The comm was a storm of voices — Shiro’s command, Keith’s outrage, Allura’s sharp disbelief. But none of it mattered.

Your fingers slid into his.

Lotor’s smile was sharp and triumphant, but when he leaned close, his voice was low and meant only for you: “Finally.”