“Lead the way.”
The power coupling housing is located behind the main environmental console, accessible only through a narrow maintenance hatch. I squeeze through first, flashlight in hand, and immediately realize the problem. The space is even smaller than I thought, barely wide enough for my shoulders.
“How’s the access?” Rynn asks from outside the hatch.
“Tight,” I call back. “But manageable. Can you pass me the—”
I reach for the diagnostic probe he’s offering and somehow misjudge the angle. Instead of grasping the tool, my fingers collide with his, and the contact sends such a jolt of electricity through me that I jerk backward reflexively.
Right into the active power coupling.
Pain lances up my arm like liquid fire, and I can’t suppress the sharp cry that escapes me.
“Polly!” Rynn’s voice is sharp with alarm, and suddenly he’s squeezing into the narrow space beside me, his hands immediately finding my shoulders. “What happened? Are you hurt?”
“Plasma burn,” I manage through gritted teeth, cradling my wrist against my chest. “Hit the active coupling.”
His expression darkens with something that might be guilt or concern or both. “Let me see.”
“It’s not—”
“Let me see,” he repeats, but this time it’s not a request. There’s command in his voice that brooks no argument, and despite the pain, it sends a little thrill through me.
Wordlessly, I extend my injured arm, and his hands are immediately on me—one supporting my elbow, the other gently turning my wrist to examine the damage.
The contact sends electricity racing up my arm that has nothing to do with the injury. His skin is fever-hot against mine, and this close, I can see the way his pupils dilate as he takes in the extent of the burn.
“Second degree,” he says, his voice rough with what sounds like barely restrained anger. “We need to treat this immediately.”
“I can—”
“You’re not treating anything.” The authority in his voice makes my knees weak despite the circumstances. “Where’s your med kit?”
I start to point with my uninjured hand, but he’s already spotted it. Within moments, he has the kit open and is pulling out supplies with the kind of efficiency that suggests medical training.
“This is going to hurt,” he warns, pulling out a neural-foam applicator.
“I can handle—oh, fuck.” The words turn into a gasp as he begins cleaning the burn. The pain is sharp and immediate, and I automatically lean into him for support.
Big mistake.
The moment my uninjured hand lands on his chest for balance, his entire body goes rigid. The micro-scales under my palm flutter and warm, responding to my touch in ways that make my pulse race despite the pain.
“Polly.” My name sounds like a prayer and a curse. “You need to—” He stops whatever he was going to say and focuses on the medical treatment, but I can feel the tension radiating from him.
“Need to what?” I ask, probably unwisely.
“Nothing,” he says tightly, but his hands aren’t quite steady as he applies the neural foam. “Just... try not to move.”
Fat chance of that. Every touch sends shivers through me, and not just from the medical treatment. He’s being incredibly gentle, but there’s something about the way he handles me—like I’m precious, like I’m something to be protected—that makes heat pool low in my belly.
“There,” he says when he finishes applying the biofilm bandage. “Better?”
“Much.” The word comes out as barely more than a whisper. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me.” His grip on my wrist tightens slightly, and when I look up, his eyes are burning with something dark and intense. “This was my fault.”
“How was this your fault?”
