It hits me somewhere low and deep.
I swallow hard.
“Thanks,” I say quietly.
He backs off with a grunt, setting the crate aside like it didn’t almost crush my skull. But he doesn’t go far. He stays close.
Too close.
I hate that I don’t tell him to leave.
Hours pass. Or maybe minutes. Time slips weird inside a lockdown. We snack on the ration bar—dried protein squares that taste like despair and peanut butter. Naull makes jokes. I pretend not to laugh.
Eventually, I sit down on one of the cots, legs dangling. My muscles ache. My brain’s fried. The diagnostics are looping and there’s nothing left to do but wait.
Naull sprawls across the other cot like he’s in a luxury suite.
“This remind you of your academy days?” he asks.
I glance at him. “I didn’t dorm. Commuted from home.”
“Bet you were the shy nerd in the back row.”
“Try front row. Top of the class.”
“Oh, definitely a nerd.”
I throw a pillow at him.
He catches it and smirks. “Didn’t deny the shy part.”
“I’m not shy.”
He stands and crosses the room in two strides. Stands in front of me, hands on his hips.
“Prove it.”
I blink. “What?”
“Prove you’re not shy.”
“Naull—”
“You talk big. You fight bigger. But every time I get close, you flinch. Every time we sync, I feel you lock the door behind your eyes.”
“That’s not shyness,” I say, rising to face him. “That’s survival.”
He looks down at me, eyes serious now. “You don’t have to survive me.”
And for some reason… that unravels me faster than any flirtation.
“I don’t know what todowith you,” I admit. “You’re not a variable I planned for.”
“Good,” he murmurs. “You shouldn’t have to plan everything.”
“I like plans.”
“I like you.”
