The Lost Nation of Tartaria

Chapter 8: Repeating The Fall

Chapter 8: Repeating The Fall

[2035 | Abandoned House | Dawn]

John didn’t stir.

The light creeping in through the broken blinds had shifted to a softer gray, casting long shadows across the moldy bedroom walls. Sarah’s hand hesitated for just a second, fingers inches from the waistband of his pants where the journal was tucked, warm against his skin.

Her breath caught.

Then, his hand snapped forward, clamping around her wrist like a trap.

“What... what the fuck are you doing?” His voice was hoarse, raw from sleep—but alert.

Sarah froze, caught in the half-light between silence and lies.

For a moment, she looked like a child caught in a firelight lie—eyes wide, lips parted. But then something in her shifted. Instead of pulling away, she climbed atop him, slow and deliberate, her knees sliding against the thin sheet that barely covered them both.

She pinned his arms down.

A soft smile bloomed on her lips—confusingly tender, almost too human. She leaned in until her breath ghosted across his ear.

“I never properly thanked you,” she whispered.

Her lips brushed the shell of his ear, then gave it the faintest bite—teasing, disarming. John blinked up at her, his body tense beneath hers.

He hadn’t felt anyone touch him like this in years.

Not since the New States turned love into a liability. Not since the camps. Not since loss became currency.

“Umm… no,” he murmured, voice cracking. “I guess not.”

His grip loosened, confused. Vulnerable.

Sarah kissed him then—deep, messy, almost frantic. Tongues met. Hands explored. She broke the kiss only to press her lips to his neck, his chest, the old burn scar near his ribs.

His hands rose, uncertain at first… then followed her lead.

Clothes were shed without ceremony. She never let him take control—not fully. Even as her shirt slipped away and his belt clattered softly to the floor, she kept her knees braced on either side of him. She guided the rhythm. Controlled the pace. Masked her motives behind every touch.

When she moved—grinding slowly, her forehead pressed to his—John let out a sound that wasn’t pleasure or pain. It was surrender. A forgotten language.

Outside, the world remained broken. Inside, sweat met dust. Skin met skin.

Afterward, they lay tangled beneath the blanket. Breathing slowed. The mold in the walls no longer smelled sharp—it just smelled like time.

Sarah rested her head against his chest, heartbeat slowing beneath her ear.

So close, she thought.

Her hand hovered over where the journal had been—but it was gone. Moved. Shifted in the tangle of bodies. She blinked, then looked up at him. John’s eyes were already closed again, the weight of exhaustion dragging him back toward sleep.

But what she saw in his face startled her.

Peace.

Not suspicion. Not fear. Peace.

And it shook her.

A flicker of something real fluttered in her chest—not part of the act. A warmth she didn’t ask for. Didn’t want. And couldn’t kill.