Oh no.
The bathroom door—his bathroom, she realized, because there were two and she'd aimed for the wrong damn one—stood slightly ajar. Steam billowed through the gap, warm and damp against her face, carrying the scent of soap and something clean and male with an underlying spice she couldn't name.
The door opened.
Kirr stepped out, water beading on his chest and shoulders, a towel slung low on his hips. Heat rolled off him in waves, cutting through the station's recycled air. That was it. Just the towel and all that wet skin and orange hair slicked back from his face, darker when wet.
Harper's thoughts scattered like startled birds.
She'd known he was big. Had felt it when he'd pulled her from the wreckage. But seeing him like this—nearly naked, backlit by bathroom light, water everywhere—drove home exactly how massive he was.
Seven feet of solid muscle. Shoulders that could block out the sun. Strength that could snap her in half without effort.
Her mouth went dry. Her throat clicked when she tried to swallow.
He stopped when he saw her, those golden eyes finding hers. No surprise in his expression. No embarrassment. Just that steady calm, like running into his supervised charge while dripping wet was perfectly normal.
Water slid down his chest. She tracked it, watched the droplet follow the valley between muscles before disappearing into the towel's edge. Another drop fell from his hair, hit his shoulder, traced a new path down his arm.
Her pulse kicked hard against her throat.
Stop staring.
She couldn't. Her eyes wouldn't move, wouldn't process anything except the sheer size of him, the easy power in how he stood, the fact that one of his hands could probably span her waist completely.
He could overpower her without effort. Could do whatever he wanted and she'd be helpless to stop him.
The thought should've terrified her.
It didn't.
Because there was no threat in his posture. No predator lurking in those golden eyes. Just patience, like he had all the time in the world for her to remember how words worked.
"Harper." His voice was quiet. Gentle. Low enough that she felt it in her chest more than heard it.
Her brain struggled back online.
Oh god. She was staring at her jailer like he was dessert and he'd caught her doing it. She needed to say something, but her mouth had stopped cooperating.
"I—bathroom—wrong one—sorry—" The words tumbled out in a graceless rush.
His lips quirked. Not quite a smile, but close. "Other door. To your left."
Right. The other bathroom. She'd somehow picked his. Of course she had.
"Thanks." She backed up a step, then another. The cool floor against her bare feet grounded her for half a second. Her heel caught on nothing—her own foot probably—and she stumbled.
He moved forward, one hand reaching out to steady her.
She was already recovering, already putting more distance between them. Away from that heat, that scent, that overwhelming presence.
"I'm fine." Too fast. Too defensive. "I'm fine. Just—bathroom. I'll just?—"
She fled.
The guest bathroom door shut behind her with a hiss and she pressed her back against it, eyes closed, temples pounding like she'd just sprinted a mile. Her skin was too hot, her hands trembling against the smooth door panel.
What the hell was wrong with her?
