The medbay’s half-collapsed, a tangle of shattered cabinets and overturned gurneys. I kick open the door, snatch a dermal patch from the wreckage, and slap it over the bleeding wound. The seal hisses. The wound knits a little—but not fully. She needs rest. Fluids. Painkillers.
“You’re an idiot,” she mutters, voice muffled by my chest. “You didn’t even check if the thing had backup power. You just went in like a juggernaut on steroids.”
“You’d rather I waited?” I ask, still holding her close. “Let it finish slicing you open?”
She doesn’t answer. Just... press her forehead against me.
And leaves it there.
Her fingers curl in the fabric near my collarbone.
She doesn’t let go.
I don’t want her to.
We stay there for a while.
I cradle her like something precious. She rests against me, silent except for the hitch in her breath. I can feel her heartbeat slow. Feel the tension bleed out of her spine.
Her scent fills the small room—salt and blood and her. It drowns out the sharp sting of antiseptic and scorched metal. I let it pull me under.
“You saved me,” she says eventually.
“You’d have done the same.”
She doesn’t respond. But her hand shifts, fingertips grazing the edge of my jaw.
“I’m tired of this,” she says softly. “Tired of running. Fighting. Always pretending I’m okay.”
“You don’t have to pretend with me.”
She looks up at me.
For a moment, there’s nothing between us but breath.
I want to kiss her. Gods, I want to press my mouth to hers and taste the heat she hides behind that sharp tongue. I want to tell her she’s mine. That she’s always been mine.
But I don’t.
Not yet.
She needs safety. Shelter. Healing.
So instead, I adjust her gently against me and say, “Sleep. I’ll keep watch.”
And for the first time, she lets herself rest in my arms.
CHAPTER 9
ELLA
We’re running out of warmth.
It’s not even subtle. The heat fades in waves. Like the ship’s bones are finally admitting they’re dead and it’s time for us to join them.
The emergency cells are done. Spent. Their cores are cold metal now, leaking nothing but regret. I’ve scoured three decks, found two flickering junction nodes, and rewired every damn power regulator I can pry open. I cannibalized three whole consoles to re-route flow to the thermal capacitor—and we’re still short.
Every time I think I’ve caught a break, something sparks or shorts or literallycatches fire.And the kicker? The sun-angle’s about to shift. What little solar warmth we’ve been absorbing through the ragged hull plating is gonna vanish into deep void cold. If I don’t figure this out soon, we’re not just screwed—we’re ice sculptures with attitude.
