The stars above America were clearer than they’d ever been.

No satellites. No light pollution. Just a vast, ancient sky stretching over a world reborn. The camp was quiet tonight—machines powered down, fires flickering low, the hum of invention paused for sleep.

Xeno sat at the edge of the clearing, a notebook balanced on his knee, pen tapping absently against the page. He wasn’t writing. Not yet. Just thinking. Calculating. Rebuilding the future one equation at a time.

You approached without a word, settling beside him in the grass. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t look up. But after a moment, he passed you the notebook.

You glanced down.

It wasn’t a formula.

It was a sketch—rough, unfinished, but unmistakably a blueprint. Not for a machine. Not for a lab.

For a home.

“You’re planning ahead,” you said softly.

“I always do,” he replied, voice low. “But this… this is different.”

You waited.

He turned toward you then, eyes reflecting starlight and something quieter. “I used to think progress was the only thing worth chasing. That emotion was a distraction. That connection was… optional.”

You didn’t speak. Just listened.

“But now,” he continued, “I find myself designing spaces with warmth. With comfort. With you in mind.”

Your breath caught.

He looked away, almost shy. “I don’t know what that means. Not yet. But I know it’s real.”

You reached for his hand—not dramatic, not possessive. Just steady. He let you take it.

And in that silence, between equations and stars, something shifted.

The world was still broken. Still wild. Still waiting.

But here, beside Xeno, you felt the future begin to take shape—not just in circuits and turbines, but in the quiet miracle of being chosen.