Dust and Devotion

The sandstorm had teeth.

I felt them biting through the scarf wrapped around my face as I pushed the Thorton's door open, each grain a tiny needle against my skin. The wind howled like something dying, and maybe it was. Maybe the whole damn world was dying, and we were all just too stubborn to lie down and let it happen.

The garage lights flickered overhead, casting everything in that sickly yellow glow that made even the healthiest person look like they were coming down with something. I killed the engine and sat there for a moment, listening to the tick of cooling metal, the distant rumble of the storm outside. My hands were still shaking. Not from the cold. Not from the driving.

From her.

Panam Palmer stood at the far end of the garage, hip cocked against a workbench, arms crossed over her chest. She hadn't moved since I pulled in. Hadn't waved. Hadn't called out. Just watched me through those dark eyes that always made me feel like I was being weighed and measured, and coming up short in ways I couldn't quite name.

"You're late," she said.

The words cut through the noise of the storm like they'd been sharpened for exactly that purpose. I killed the headlights and climbed out, boots hitting the concrete with a sound that felt too loud in the cavernous space.

"Storm," I said. "Couldn't see five feet in front of the hood."

"Excuses."

I pulled the scarf down, letting it pool around my neck. Sand cascaded from the folds, and I could feel grit in places grit had no business being. "Not an excuse. A fact. There's a difference."

She pushed off from the workbench and started walking toward me. Slow. Deliberate. Each step measured like she was counting them, like she had all the time in the world and wanted me to know it. The garage was a converted warehouse on the edge of the Badlands, all corrugated metal and exposed wiring, with a roof that leaked when it rained and groaned when the wind blew. It smelled like oil and ozone and something else, something that might have been her, though I couldn't have said what that meant.

I'd known Panam for three months. Three months since she'd pulled me out of a firefight with the Raffen Shiv, since I'd helped her take back her clan's honor, since we'd stood side by side against a world that wanted us both dead. Three months of watching her move through the world like a force of nature, like something that couldn't be contained or controlled or predicted. Three months of wanting her in ways I hadn't wanted anything since Jackie died.

She stopped three feet away. Close enough that I could see the grease under her fingernails, the faint scar on her jaw from a knife fight I hadn't been there for, the way her tank top clung to the curve of her breasts. She'd been working. There was a smudge of something dark on her cheek, and I had to fight the urge to reach out and wipe it away.

"You're staring," she said.

"You're worth staring at."

The corner of her mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. Panam didn't smile easy. "Flattery won't get you out of this."

"Out of what?"

She turned and walked back toward the workbench. I followed, because that's what I did. Followed her. Had been following her since the day we met, even when I was leading, even when I was the one with the plan. There was something about Panam that made following feel natural, like the world had a gravity and she was the center of it.

The workbench was covered in parts. Engine components, mostly, scattered like someone had upended a box and walked away. But there was something else there too, something that didn't belong among the pistons and valves and fuel injectors.

A collar.

Black leather. Silver studs. A small metal ring at the front, the kind you'd attach a leash to.

I stopped walking. "What's that?"

Panam picked it up, turning it over in her hands like she was examining a curiosity. "What does it look like?"

"Looks like a collar."

"Good. Your eyes work." She set it down again, but didn't step away. Her hand stayed on the leather, fingers tracing the studs. "I've been thinking."

"Dangerous."

"Shut up." But there was no heat in it. Just that flat tone she used when she was working up to something, when she had a plan and was deciding how to spring it. I'd seen her use it on Saul, on Mitch, on Raffen scouts who thought they could take her. "I've been thinking about you. About us. About what this is."

My heart did something complicated in my chest. "What is this?"

"That's what I'm trying to figure out." She looked up at me, and for a moment the mask slipped. I saw something underneath, something vulnerable and uncertain, and it hit me like a fist to the gut. Panam Palmer, who'd faced down death squads and desert storms and the entire fucking world, was nervous. "You've been following me around for three months. Doing what I say. Going where I go. I need to know why."

"Because I want to."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only one I've got."

She shook her head, a sharp, frustrated motion. "Bullshit. You're not a dog, V. You don't just follow because someone whistles. You've got your own shit going on. Your own crew. Your own... whatever it is you do when you're not here. So why do you keep coming back?"

I thought about it. Really thought about it, the way you think about things when someone's watching you, when the answer matters. The garage was silent except for the storm, the wind rattling the walls like it wanted in. I could smell her now. Sweat and engine grease and something floral underneath, something that didn't belong in the Badlands but that she wore anyway, like a challenge.

"Because you're the only person who's ever looked at me like I was worth something," I said finally. "Not worth using. Not worth killing. Worth... keeping."

The words hung in the air between us. Panam's expression didn't change, but her fingers tightened on the collar. I watched her throat move as she swallowed.

"Keeping," she repeated.

"Yeah."

She picked up the collar again. Walked toward me. This time, when she stopped, she was close enough to touch. Close enough that I could feel the heat coming off her skin, could see the individual grains of sand caught in her hair.

"On your knees," she said.

The words didn't make sense at first. They were just sounds, syllables strung together in a way that didn't connect to anything. I stood there, frozen, trying to process what she'd said.

"I'm sorry?"

"You heard me." She held up the collar, and the metal ring caught the light, glinting like a promise or a threat. "You want to be kept? Fine. But I need to know you mean it. I need to know you're not just saying pretty words because you think it's what I want to hear. So get on your knees."

My body reacted before my brain caught up. Knees bending, weight shifting, the concrete cold and hard through my jeans. I looked up at her, and she looked down at me, and something passed between us that I couldn't name. Something that felt like the beginning of something or the end of something, and I couldn't tell which.

Panam knelt too, so we were face to face. She reached out and touched my cheek, her palm rough against my skin. It was the gentlest she'd ever been with me. It was terrifying.

"You don't have to do this," she said. "If you say no, we walk away. We pretend this never happened. I go my way, you go yours, and we never talk about it again."

"And if I say yes?"

"Then you're mine." Her thumb traced my jaw, feather-light. "Not just following. Not just helping. Mine. You do what I say, when I say it. You trust me with everything. And in return..."

She trailed off, and I waited. The storm howled. The lights flickered. The world outside kept spinning, indifferent to the two of us and whatever we were becoming.

"In return, I keep you," she finished. "I protect you. I... I care about you. In ways I don't know how to say. In ways I've never been good at saying."

I thought about the collar. About what it meant. About the weight of it, the symbolism, the way it would change things between us. I thought about Panam, about the way she'd saved my life more times than I could count, about the way she looked at me when she thought I wasn't watching. I thought about being alone, about the empty apartment in Night City, about the silence that waited for me every time I left her.

"Okay," I said.

She blinked. "Okay?"

"Okay. I'm yours."

The collar was cool against my throat. She fastened it carefully, deliberately, her fingers brushing against my pulse point. When she was done, she sat back on her heels and looked at me. Really looked. And for the first time since I'd known her, she smiled. Not a smirk. Not a grin. A real smile, small and private, like something she'd been saving.

"Mine," she said, like she was testing the word.

"Yours," I said, and meant it.

She stood and offered me her hand. I took it, let her pull me to my feet. My knees ached from the concrete, and there was sand in my boots, and the collar was tight enough that I could feel it every time I swallowed.

"Come on," she said, turning toward the back of the garage. "You're filthy. Let's get you cleaned up."

I followed her. Of course I followed her. That's what I did.

The back of the garage was a living space, the kind of thing you built when you didn't trust the world enough to sleep anywhere else. A mattress on the floor. A hot plate. A shelf of books with cracked spines and coffee stains. It smelled like her, that floral scent mixed with oil and sweat, and I breathed it in like I was drowning and she was air.

Panam pointed to a corner. "Sit."

I sat. Watched her move around the space, gathering things. A basin. A cloth. A bottle of water. She knelt in front of me, and I realized what she was doing.

"You don't have to..."

"I know." She dipped the cloth in the water, wrung it out. "But I want to. Is that okay?"

I nodded, not trusting my voice.

She started with my face. Gentle strokes, wiping away the sand and grime, the evidence of the storm. The cloth was cool, and her touch was warm, and I closed my eyes and let myself feel it. Let myself be taken care of. It wasn't something I was used to. In Night City, you learned to take care of yourself, because no one else would. You learned to be hard, to be sharp, to be the one who did the taking. Softness was a weakness. Trust was a liability.

But Panam wasn't Night City. Panam was something else entirely.

She moved down to my neck, cleaning the skin around the collar. The cloth caught on the leather, and she paused, her fingers tracing the edge.

"Does it hurt?"

"No."

"Good." She continued down, wiping my shoulders, my arms. She took my hands in hers, cleaning each finger individually, working the cloth into the spaces between. It felt like a ritual. Like something sacred.

"You're quiet," she said.

"I'm thinking."

"About?"

"About how I ended up here. Kneeling in a garage in the Badlands, wearing a collar, letting a nomad wash my hands." I opened my eyes, looked at her. "It's not where I expected my life to go."

"Disappointed?"

"No." The word came out fierce, and I didn't try to soften it. "Not even a little."

She smiled again, that small private smile, and something in my chest cracked open. I reached for her, and she let me, leaning into my touch like she'd been waiting for it. Her skin was warm, her hair soft, and when I kissed her, she tasted like coffee and dust and something sweet underneath.

We stayed like that for a while, kneeling on the floor, kissing like we had all the time in the world. Her hands tangled in my hair, pulling me closer. Mine found her waist, her hips, the curve of her ass through her jeans. She made a sound, low in her throat, and I wanted to swallow it whole.

"Bed," she said against my mouth. "Now."

I stood, pulling her with me. We stumbled to the mattress, a tangle of limbs and half-removed clothing. She pushed me down, straddled my hips, looked at me with eyes that were dark and hungry and full of something I couldn't name.

"You're still wearing too many clothes," she said.

"Whose fault is that?"

She laughed. A real laugh, bright and sharp, and it was the most beautiful sound I'd ever heard. "Shut up and let me work."

She undressed me slowly, deliberately, like she was unwrapping something precious. Each button, each zipper, each layer of fabric peeled away until I was naked beneath her, the collar the only thing I wore. She sat back and looked at me, and I fought the urge to cover myself, to hide.

"Beautiful," she said.

"I'm not..."

"You are." She traced a scar on my chest, one of many. "Every mark. Every story. Beautiful."

I pulled her down to me, kissed her hard, and she let me. Let me undress her, let me touch her, let me map the landscape of her body with my hands and mouth. She was all lean muscle and soft curves, strength and vulnerability wrapped in skin that tasted like salt and desire.

When I reached the waistband of her underwear, she caught my wrist.

"Not yet," she said. "I want to look at you first."

She sat up, straddling me again, and I lay there under her gaze. It was intense, being seen like that. Being wanted like that. I'd spent so much of my life invisible, a ghost in a city of ghosts, and now this woman was looking at me like I was the only thing in the world worth seeing.

"Touch yourself," she said.

"What?"

"Touch yourself. I want to watch."

My hand moved before I could think about it, wrapping around my cock, already hard and aching. I stroked slowly, watching her watch me, and the heat in her eyes made me harder. She bit her lip. Shifted her weight. I could see the wetness between her thighs, could smell her arousal mixing with the dust and oil.

"That's it," she murmured. "Show me what you do when you think about me."

"I think about you all the time."

"I know." She smiled, wicked and knowing. "I've seen the way you look at me. Like you're starving and I'm the only thing that can feed you."

"You are."

She leaned down, kissed me, and her hand replaced mine. Her grip was firm, confident, and she stroked me with the same precision she used on engine parts. I groaned into her mouth, hips bucking, and she laughed.

"Easy," she said. "We've got all night."

She worked me slowly, bringing me to the edge and backing off, over and over, until I was trembling and desperate and ready to beg. And maybe that was the point. Maybe that was what she wanted. To see me break. To see me give her everything.

"Please," I said finally.

"Please what?"

"Please let me... I need..."

"Need what?"

"You. I need you."

She smiled, slow and satisfied. "Good answer."

She shifted, positioning herself over me, and I felt the heat of her, the wetness, the promise. She lowered herself slowly, inch by inch, and I watched her face as she took me inside her. Her eyes fluttered closed. Her lips parted. She was beautiful, and she was mine, and I was hers, and nothing else mattered.

"Fuck," she breathed.

"Yeah."

She started to move, riding me with a rhythm that was all her own. Slow at first, deliberate, like she was savoring it. Then faster, harder, her hands braced on my chest, her hair falling around her face. I grabbed her hips, pulling her down, meeting her thrusts, and she moaned.

"That's it," she said. "Fuck me. Fuck me like you mean it."

I did. I fucked her like I meant it, like it was the only thing in the world that mattered, like I was trying to prove something. To her. To myself. I don't know. But I gave her everything I had, and she took it, and gave it back, and we moved together like we'd been doing this for years.

When she came, she threw her head back and cried out, a sound that was half-moan, half-roar. Her body clenched around me, and I followed, spilling into her with a groan that felt like it came from somewhere deep inside.

She collapsed on top of me, breathing hard. I wrapped my arms around her, holding her close, and we lay there in the aftermath, sweaty and spent and somehow more connected than I'd ever felt to another person.

"Wow," I said.

She laughed, a breathless sound against my chest. "Yeah. Wow."

We stayed like that for a while, tangled together on the mattress, listening to the storm rage outside. The wind had picked up, rattling the walls, but inside, in the circle of her arms, I felt safe. Safer than I'd felt in years.

"V," she said eventually.

"Yeah?"

"Thank you."

I blinked. "For what?"

"For saying yes. For trusting me. For..." She trailed off, and I felt her shrug. "For being you, I guess."

"I should be thanking you."

"You already did." She lifted her head, looked at me. "Now shut up and go to sleep. We've got work tomorrow."

"Work?"

"Always." She settled back down, her head on my chest. "But tonight, we rest."

I closed my eyes, and for the first time in longer than I could remember, I slept without dreaming.

When I woke, the storm had passed. Sunlight streamed through the cracks in the garage walls, painting the room in stripes of gold and shadow. Panam was still asleep, her face relaxed in a way I'd never seen, her hair a wild tangle around her head.

I watched her for a while, memorizing the curve of her cheek, the way her lips parted slightly, the soft sound of her breathing. The collar was still around my neck, a constant reminder of what had happened between us. What we'd become.

She stirred, eyes fluttering open. When she saw me watching her, she smiled.

"Morning."

"Morning."

She stretched, a long, languid movement that made me want her all over again. "How do you feel?"

"Good." I considered the word. "Better than good."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

She propped herself up on her elbow, looking down at me. "You're not freaking out?"

"Should I be?"

"I don't know." She reached out, touched the collar. "This is... a lot. I know it's a lot. I just want to make sure you're okay with it."

"I'm okay with it."

"Really?"

"Really." I caught her hand, brought it to my lips. "I meant what I said last night. I'm yours."

She stared at me for a long moment, something complicated moving behind her eyes. Then she nodded, and that small private smile returned.

"Okay," she said. "Then let's get breakfast. I'm starving."

The garage had a small kitchenette in one corner, a sink and a hot plate and a fridge that hummed like it was on its last legs. Panam made coffee while I found clothes, pulling on my jeans from the day before, a clean shirt from a pile in the corner. The collar stayed on. I didn't even think about taking it off.

We ate in comfortable silence, sitting on the floor with our backs against the wall, watching the morning light creep across the concrete. The coffee was terrible, bitter and thick, but I drank it anyway. It was hers. That made it good.

"So," she said eventually. "What now?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, what happens next? We've done this thing. We've... made this commitment. But what does that actually look like? Day to day?"

I thought about it. "I don't know. I've never done this before."

"Neither have I."

"Then we figure it out together."

She nodded slowly. "Together."

"Together."

She set down her coffee and crawled over to me, settling in my lap. Her arms wrapped around my neck, and she kissed me, slow and sweet.

"I like the sound of that," she said.

"Me too."

We stayed like that for a while, kissing and touching and just being close. The morning stretched on, lazy and warm, and for a few hours, the world outside didn't matter. The Raffen, the corps, the whole damn mess of Night City and the Badlands and everything in between. None of it mattered. There was only her.

But eventually, reality intruded. A comm call from Mitch, asking about a job. A weather report warning of another storm coming in. The small, insistent demands of a world that didn't care about two people trying to figure out what they meant to each other.

Panam sighed, pulling away. "I have to deal with this."

"I know."

"You could stay. Wait for me."

"I could."

She looked at me, and I saw the question in her eyes. The fear. The hope. She was asking me to stay. Not with words, but with everything else. And I wanted to. God, I wanted to.

But there was something I needed to do first.

"I'll be back," I said. "I just need to... take care of something."

"Something?"

"Something personal. Nothing bad. I promise."

She studied me for a moment, then nodded. "Okay. But you come back."

"I'll come back."

I kissed her one last time, then stood and gathered my things. The collar felt heavy around my neck, a constant reminder of what I was leaving and what I was coming back to. I walked out of the garage into the bright desert morning, and the sun was warm on my face, and I felt more alive than I had in years.

The drive back to Night City took three hours. I didn't rush. I let the miles pass, watching the desert give way to sprawl, the sky darken from blue to gray as I approached the city. It was ugly, Night City. Loud and dirty and full of people who'd sell you out for a handful of eddies. But it was home. It was where I'd been born, where I'd lived, where I'd died and come back. It was part of me, for better or worse.

I parked the Thorton in a garage in Japantown and walked the rest of the way. The streets were crowded, as always, full of people going nowhere, doing nothing, living lives that didn't matter. I moved through them like a ghost, invisible, untouchable. The collar was hidden under my jacket, but I could feel it with every step.

The apartment was exactly how I'd left it. Empty. Quiet. A bed, a chair, a window looking out at the neon sprawl. I stood in the doorway for a long moment, just looking at it. At the life I'd built for myself. The life I was leaving behind.

I crossed to the closet and pulled out a duffel bag. Started packing. Clothes. Weapons. A few personal items. The photo of Jackie, the one from before everything went to shit. It wasn't much. It had never been much. But it was mine, and now I was choosing to give it up.

When the bag was full, I sat on the bed and looked at the collar in the mirror. It suited me. That was the strange thing. It looked right, like it had always been there. Like I'd been waiting my whole life for someone to put it on me.

My agent buzzed. A message from Panam.

*You okay?*

I smiled, typed back.

*Yeah. Just packing.*

*Packing?*

*I'm coming home.*

A pause. Then:

*Good. Hurry.*

I laughed, standing up, grabbing the bag. The apartment was behind me, the city was behind me, everything I'd ever known was behind me. Ahead of me was a garage in the Badlands, a woman with grease under her fingernails and fire in her eyes, and a future I couldn't predict.

I couldn't wait.

The drive back felt shorter, somehow. Maybe because I knew where I was going. Maybe because, for the first time in a long time, I had somewhere to go. The sun was setting when I pulled into the garage, painting the desert in shades of orange and red. Panam was waiting for me, leaning against the workbench, arms crossed.

"You came back," she said.

"I told you I would."

She pushed off from the bench and walked toward me. Slow. Deliberate. The same way she'd walked toward me the night before. But this time, when she reached me, she didn't stop. She wrapped her arms around my neck and kissed me, hard, like she was trying to prove something.

"I was worried," she said against my lips.

"I know."

"Don't do that again."

"I won't."

She pulled back, looked at me. Her eyes were bright, almost fierce. "You brought stuff."

"Yeah."

"You're really staying."

"Yeah."

She kissed me again, softer this time. "Good. Because I wasn't done with you yet."

The days that followed were a blur of work and sweat and stolen moments. Panam had jobs lined up, deals to make, people to see. I went with her. I always went with her. I carried her gear, watched her back, did what she told me to do. And in between, we fucked. On the mattress, against the workbench, in the back of the Thorton when we were out in the desert. We couldn't keep our hands off each other, and I didn't want to.

The collar stayed on. I wore it everywhere. Under my shirt when we went into town, hidden from prying eyes. But at home, in the garage, it was always visible. A reminder. A promise. When Panam looked at me, she saw it, and something in her eyes softened.

"You're different," Mitch said one day, watching us work on the truck. "Both of you."

"Different how?"

"I don't know. Happier, maybe. Like you finally figured something out."

I shrugged, not sure what to say. He wasn't wrong. But I wasn't sure I could explain it, even if I wanted to.

Panam came over, wiping her hands on a rag. "What are you two gossiping about?"

"Nothing," Mitch said. "Just saying you seem happy."

She glanced at me, and that small private smile crossed her face. "Yeah. I guess I am."

Mitch raised an eyebrow but didn't push. He was smart like that. Knew when to let things be.

That night, after the others had gone to bed, Panam and I lay on the mattress, tangled together. The collar was cool against my throat, a familiar weight.

"I've been thinking," she said.

"Dangerous."

"Shut up." She poked my ribs, and I laughed. "I've been thinking about what comes next. For us."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean... this is good. What we have. But I want more. I want to build something. Together."

I turned my head, looked at her. "What kind of something?"

"I don't know yet. A life. A future. Something that's ours." She paused, chewing her lip. "Is that crazy?"

"No. It's not crazy."

"You want it too?"

"Yeah." I reached out, touched her face. "I want it too."

She kissed me, and I kissed her back, and we made love slowly, gently, like we had all the time in the world. Afterward, she fell asleep in my arms, her breath warm against my neck. I lay awake for a while, listening to the desert night, feeling the weight of the collar, the weight of her body against mine.

This was it. This was my life now. Not the life I'd planned, not the life I'd expected. But maybe the life I'd needed all along. Maybe the life I'd been searching for without knowing it.

I closed my eyes and slept.

The weeks turned into months. The months turned into something that felt like forever. We built a life together, Panam and I. Not a conventional life. Nothing about us was conventional. But a life nonetheless. A life full of work and laughter and fights and making up. A life full of her.

The collar became a part of me. I wore it always, even when we were apart. It was a reminder of who I belonged to, who I was. When I looked in the mirror, I saw it there, and I felt... right. Complete. Like I'd finally found the missing piece of myself.

Panam never took it for granted. She never used it against me. She held it sacred, a trust I'd given her, a gift she treasured. When she touched it, her fingers were gentle. When she spoke of it, her voice was soft.

"You're mine," she'd say, and I'd feel it in my bones.

"I'm yours," I'd answer, and mean it.

The world kept spinning. The storms kept coming. The Raffen kept raiding, the corps kept scheming, the whole damn mess of the Badlands kept churning. But through it all, we held on to each other. Through it all, we stayed.

One night, we were sitting on the roof of the garage, watching the stars. The desert sky was clear, full of light, and I felt small in the best way. Small and held and loved.

"V," Panam said.

"Yeah?"

"I love you."

I turned to look at her. She was beautiful in the starlight, her hair blowing in the wind, her eyes reflecting the sky. And she was looking at me like I was the only thing in the world worth seeing.

"I love you too," I said.

She smiled, that small private smile, and leaned into me. I wrapped my arm around her, pulled her close. The collar was warm against my throat, a comfort, a home.

This was it. This was everything.

And it was only the beginning.

The morning came, as mornings always did, with light and heat and the promise of another day. I woke to find Panam already up, already dressed, already moving. She was at the workbench, tinkering with something, and I lay there for a moment, watching her.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

She glanced over her shoulder, smiled. "Come see."

I got up, pulled on my jeans, walked over. She was working on a new project, something I hadn't seen before. A harness, or something like it. Leather and metal, carefully crafted.

"What is it?"

"Something for you." She held it up, and I saw what it was. A harness for my chest, with straps that would go over my shoulders and around my back. A place to attach things. A way to carry her gear, her tools, her weapons. "I thought you might like it."

I took it from her, turning it over in my hands. It was beautiful, in a utilitarian way. Practical. Purposeful. Like her.

"I love it," I said.

"Try it on."

I did. It fit perfectly, snug against my chest, the straps crossing my back. She adjusted a buckle here, a strap there, and when she was done, she stepped back to admire her work.

"Perfect," she said.

I looked in the mirror. The collar around my neck. The harness on my chest. I looked like something new. Something made. Something hers.

"Thank you," I said.

She kissed me, quick and fierce. "You're welcome. Now come on. We've got work to do."

We spent the day in the desert, running a job for a client who needed something retrieved from a Raffen camp. It was dangerous, as all jobs were dangerous, but we were good at what we did. We moved through the camp like shadows, silent and deadly, and when we were done, we had what we came for and no one was the wiser.

On the drive back, Panam reached over and put her hand on my thigh. "You did good today."

"Thanks."

"I mean it. You're good at this. At following. At being mine."

I felt the words settle into me, warm and right. "I'm glad you think so."

"I don't think so. I know so."

We drove in silence for a while, watching the desert pass by. The sun was setting, painting the sky in shades of pink and gold. It was beautiful. She was beautiful.

"Panam," I said.

"Yeah?"

"I'm happy."

She glanced at me, and I saw the surprise in her eyes. The pleasure. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. For the first time in... I don't know how long. Maybe ever. I'm happy."

She smiled, that small private smile, and squeezed my thigh. "Me too."

We drove on into the sunset, two people in a truck in the middle of nowhere, heading home. And home was wherever she was. Home was the garage, the mattress, the workbench. Home was the collar around my neck and the harness on my chest and the woman beside me.

Home was her.

The days turned into weeks. The weeks turned into months. We built a life together, Panam and I. A life of work and love and everything in between. We fought, sometimes. We made up, always. We built something that was ours, something that no one could take away.

And through it all, the collar stayed on. A reminder. A promise. A home.

I was hers. She was mine. And that was enough.

That was everything.

The night was dark, the desert quiet. We lay on the mattress, tangled together, the collar warm against my throat. Panam's fingers traced lazy patterns on my chest, following the lines of the harness.

"What are you thinking about?" she asked.

"The future."

"What about it?"

"I don't know. Just... what it might look like. For us."

She was quiet for a moment. Then: "I want to build something. Something real. Something that lasts."

"We are."

"I know. But I want more. I want..." She trailed off, searching for words. "I want a place that's ours. Not just this garage. A real home. A place where we can be together without looking over our shoulders."

I thought about it. A home. A real home. It was a strange concept. I'd never had one. Not really. The apartment in Night City was just a place to sleep. The garage was just a place to work. But a home... a home was something else.

"Where would we go?" I asked.

"I don't know. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere we can see the stars. Somewhere we can be free."

"Free," I repeated. It was a nice word. A dangerous word. But nice.

"Yeah. Free."

I turned my head, looked at her. She was beautiful in the darkness, her eyes bright, her face soft. She was everything. She was my everything.

"Okay," I said. "Let's do it. Let's find a place. Let's build a home."

She smiled, that small private smile, and kissed me. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

We stayed up late that night, talking about the future. About where we'd go, what we'd do, who we'd become. It was a fantasy, maybe. A dream. But it was our dream, and that made it real.

When we finally slept, I dreamed of open skies and quiet places and a woman with fire in her eyes. I dreamed of a life that was ours. I dreamed of home.

And when I woke, she was there. She was always there.

She was my home.

The search for a new place took weeks. We scouted locations, checked out abandoned homesteads, talked to nomads who knew the land. Panam was picky. She wanted somewhere defensible, somewhere with water, somewhere with a view. I didn't care. I just wanted to be with her.

Eventually, we found it. An old farmhouse on the edge of the Badlands, far from the cities, far from the chaos. It was rundown, falling apart, but it had good bones. A well. A generator. A view of the mountains that took your breath away.

"It's perfect," Panam said, standing on the porch, looking out at the sunset.

"It's a wreck."

"It's a wreck we can fix." She turned to me, grinning. "Together."

I couldn't argue with that.

We spent the next few months renovating the place. Fixing the roof, patching the walls, installing new systems. It was hard work, but it was good work. The kind of work that built something. The kind of work that mattered.

Mitch and the others helped when they could. They thought we were crazy, of course. Moving out to the middle of nowhere, building a life from scratch. But they understood. They were nomads. They knew what it meant to want a place of your own.

The collar stayed on through all of it. I wore it while I hammered nails, while I patched walls, while I dug trenches for pipes. It was part of me now. Part of us. When Panam saw it, she smiled. When I felt it, I felt whole.

One night, after a long day of work, we sat on the porch and watched the stars. The house was almost done. Almost ready. Almost home.

"V," Panam said.

"Yeah?"

"I've been thinking."

"You're always thinking."

"Shut up." She nudged me, and I laughed. "I've been thinking about... us. About what we are."

"What are we?"

"I don't know. That's the thing. I don't have a word for it. You're not just my... whatever. You're not just someone who follows me. You're..." She trailed off, frustrated.

"I'm yours," I said. "That's the word. I'm yours."

She looked at me, and I saw the emotion in her eyes. The love. The gratitude. The wonder.

"Yeah," she said softly. "You're mine."

"And you're mine."

"I am."

We kissed, slow and sweet, and the stars watched over us. The desert was quiet. The world was far away. And we were home.

The days turned into weeks. The weeks turned into months. The house became a home, filled with our things, our memories, our love. We worked, we laughed, we fought, we made up. We lived.

And through it all, the collar stayed on. A symbol. A promise. A truth.

I was hers. She was mine. And nothing would ever change that.

The end of the beginning. The start of forever.

I was ready.