"In your quarters." The words tasted like failure. "Under your supervision."
His expression softened. "Thank you."
Harper pulled his jacket tighter and tried not to think about how the man who'd saved her life had just become her warden. Tried not to think about wanting him despite everything.
She looked back at Delilah through the transparent panels. At least they were both still breathing.
4
The door to Kirr's quarters slid open with a soft hiss that sounded too much like a cell locking.
Harper stepped inside and stopped.
Not a cell. Not even close.
The living area stretched out before her, easily three times the size of the apartment she'd shared with Delilah. Floor-to-ceiling viewports dominated one wall, showing the curve of Earth hanging in the black beyond. Furniture in clean lines and dark leather occupied the space—a couch that could seat six humans comfortably, low tables, a work desk positioned to catch the view. Everything was immaculate. Organized. The kind of space that belonged to someone who had their shit together.
Someone who wasn't her.
"Guest room is through there." Kirr moved past her, his bare shoulders catching the light from the viewport. He still hadn't put on a shirt. "Private bath attached. LMP sent over some basics for you."
She followed him through an archway into a bedroom that made her throat tight.
It was bigger than her entire bedroom back on Earth. A massive bed dominated the space, the kind you could get lost in. More viewports. A desk. Seating area. The attached bath visible through an open door showed tile and fixtures that probably cost more than six months of her rent.
A small bag sat on the bed. Standard issue gray fabric with the LMP logo stamped on the side.
Her life, reduced to one borrowed bag of basics.
"I'll let you settle in." Kirr's voice came from the doorway. "Kitchen's fully stocked if you're hungry. I can show you where everything is, or make you something if you'd prefer?—"
"I don't need a babysitter." The words came out sharper than she intended. She didn't turn around. "I can take care of myself."
Silence filled the space behind her. Then his footsteps retreated, quiet and unhurried.
The door slid shut with a soft hiss.
Harper closed her eyes and counted to ten. Then twenty. She was being a bitch. She knew she was being a bitch. He was trying to help and she was snapping at him like he'd done something wrong when all he'd done was save her life and take responsibility for her supervised status and offer her a place to stay.
But she couldn't seem to stop.
Couldn't let go of the sharp edges that kept everyone at a distance. It was safer this way. Easier. If she let herself soften, let herself accept his kindness, she'd start wanting things she couldn't have. Start depending on someone who was only stuck with her because of LMP regulations.
She waited until her pulse settled before moving to the bed. The bag's contents were practical—underwear, two sleep shirts, toiletries, a change of clothes. Nothing personal. Nothing that belonged to her.
She shoved the bag onto the floor and sat on the edge of the bed, her hands fisting in the borrowed sleep shirt she still wore. The medical bay had given her this after cutting away her blood-soaked clothes. Everything she'd worn to the crash was gone. Destroyed or disposed of, she didn't know which.
Twenty years of barely surviving and she'd managed to lose everything in less than twenty-four hours.
The view outside the viewport mocked her. Earth hung there like a promise she couldn't keep. Home. Except it wasn't home anymore, was it? Home was a place you could leave and come back to. She'd burned that bridge the moment she'd gotten in Delilah's flyer car.
Her fingers found the scar on her left forearm, traced the familiar ridge through the thin fabric. The crash had added new cuts that crossed the old tissue. Past and present literally layered on the same skin.
Story of her life.
She should unpack. Put the basics away. Make some attempt to settle in like Kirr had suggested.
But unpacking meant accepting this. Meant admitting she was stuck here, in his quarters, under his supervision. A grown woman reduced to supervised status because she couldn't control her cousin's bad decisions.
