She'd seen attractive men before. Had dated, even, back when she'd had time for stupid things like relationships. But this—this gut-punch reaction to seeing him wet and half-naked—was something else entirely.
Dangerous.
Harper forced herself away from the door and used the bathroom on autopilot. Her hands shook when she washed them. The water ran cold, shocking against her overheated skin. Her reflection in the mirror showed flushed cheeks and pupils blown too wide.
Get it together.
He was her supervisor. Her jailer, for all practical purposes. The man who controlled whether she stayed on this station or got shipped back to Earth. Attraction wasn't just inappropriate—it was stupid. Self-destructive. The kind of thing that led to bad decisions and worse consequences.
She'd spent twenty years making sure other people's bad decisions didn't destroy her. She wasn't about to start making her own now.
Harper dried her hands on a towel that was softer than anything she'd owned on Earth and stared at her reflection for three more seconds, rebuilding her walls piece by piece. Calm. Controlled. Defensive enough to keep him at a distance.
She could do this.
The door slid open and she stepped into the hallway, half-expecting to find him still there.
Empty. The steam had cleared. Nothing left but the faint scent of soap lingering in the air and that spice that was purely him.
Good.
She started back toward the guest room, her steps quick and quiet.
"Harper."
She stopped. Turned. Her bare feet stuck slightly to the floor, the friction holding her in place.
Kirr stood in his bedroom doorway, fully dressed now in dark sleep pants and a shirt that stretched across his shoulders. His hair was still damp but no longer dripping. No bare chest. No water tracing down muscle. Just him, looking at her with those steady golden eyes.
"You okay?"
The question was gentle. No teasing. No acknowledgment of her staring or her graceless retreat or the fact that she'd practically run away from him. Just genuine concern.
Something tightened in her chest.
"Fine." The word came out rougher than intended. She cleared her throat. "Just tired."
He studied her for a moment, and she had the uncomfortable feeling he could see straight through the lie. But he just nodded, accepting her words without challenge.
"Get some rest." He stepped back into his room. "I'll wake you in the morning for medical bay visiting hours."
The door shut before she could respond.
Harper stood in the dim hallway for ten seconds, staring at his closed door. Then she retreated to the guest room and pressed her back against the door the moment it sealed behind her.
Her pulse still jumped erratically beneath her skin. Heat still crawled over her face and neck. Her borrowed sleep shirt clung to her back, damp with nervous sweat. She could still see him standing there—water beading on his chest, towel slung low, all that controlled power wrapped in calm patience.
No.
She pushed away from the door and climbed into bed, pulling the covers up even though she wasn't cold. The sheets were cool against her overheated skin, crisp and clean-smelling. The guest room was dark except for Earth's glow painting everything blue through the viewport.
In his room, movement. The creak of his bed taking his weight. The sound traveled through the wall, intimate and close. The soft rustle of fabric. Then silence.
He was settling for the night. Going to sleep like nothing had happened. Like she hadn't just stared at him like?—
Stop it.
Harper closed her eyes and tried to regulate her breathing. In for four counts. Hold for seven. Out for eight. The technique had gotten her through panic attacks and survivor's guilt and twenty years of barely keeping her head above water.
