The bag stayed on the floor.
Harper stood and moved to the viewport, pressing her palm against the cool surface. Earth rotated slowly below, clouds swirling over continents she could barely make out from this distance. Somewhere down there, her apartment sat empty. Her job—if she still had one—waited for her to not show up. Her life continued without her.
And she was trapped up here.
A cage with a view.
Time passed. She didn't know how much. The light from Earth shifted as the station rotated, painting the guest room in shades of blue and white. She heard Kirr moving around in the main quarters—footsteps, the quiet sounds of someone living their life. No hovering. No checking on her. Just... there.
Which should have been a relief.
Instead, it made her more aware of him. More conscious of the fact that she was in his space, breathing his air, existing in his world while hers fell apart.
She retreated to the bed and lay down, staring at the ceiling. The mattress was too soft. The pillows too perfect. Everything about this room screamed comfort and safety and she wanted to reject all of it on principle.
Her stomach growled.
She ignored it.
It growled again, louder, reminding her she hadn't eaten since... when? Yesterday morning? The day blurred together in her memory—the crash, the panic, the medical bay, the LMP officer with her datapad and her judgment.
The crash had been yesterday. This morning, technically. Time zones didn't matter much when you were in orbit.
Her stomach clenched, demanding attention.
Fine.
She'd eat. Because starving herself wouldn't change anything and would just prove she couldn't take care of herself. Give the LMP more ammunition for why she didn't belong in the mate program.
Harper pushed off the bed and opened the door carefully, listening for sounds of Kirr in the main quarters. His voice carried from somewhere—speaking in that flowing language she couldn't understand yet. On his comm unit, probably. Working.
Good. Maybe she could slip in and out of the kitchen without having to interact.
She padded across the living area on bare feet, hyperaware of every sound she made. The kitchen occupied the far corner, separated from the main space by a long counter. Clean lines. Gleaming surfaces. A cooling unit that probably had actual food in it instead of condiments and expired leftovers.
The door opened with a soft hum. She stared at the contents.
Holy shit.
Fresh vegetables. Actual meat. Things that didn't come from a package or require adding water. Her mouth watered just looking at it all.
"Everything's labeled if you're not sure what it is."
She jumped, her hand flying to her chest. Her pulse hammered against her palm.
Kirr sat at his desk in the living area, datapad in hand, looking at her with those golden eyes. He'd put on a shirt at some point—dark fabric that stretched across his shoulders and made him look less naked but somehow more dangerous.
"I'm fine." Her voice came out defensive. "I can figure it out."
"Didn't say you couldn't." He returned his attention to the datapad. "Just trying to help."
Help. Right. Because she was the supervised flight risk who needed help finding food like a child.
Heat flooded her face. She grabbed items from the shelves without really looking at them, her movements sharp with irritation she had no right to feel. He was being nice. Helpful. Normal. And she was being a bitch because she couldn't stand how helpless this whole situation made her feel.
She pulled things out—something that looked like cheese, vegetables she recognized, bread that smelled fresh. Her hands shook slightly as she tried to balance everything. The interior was organized with military precision, taller items in back, shorter in front, everything accessible.
Of course it was.
