It didn't help now.
Because her mind kept replaying the way water had traced down his chest. The way his hand had reached out to steady her, instinctive and gentle. The way he'd looked at her with patience instead of judgment when she'd fled like a startled animal.
She rolled onto her side, facing away from the door. Away from where she knew he was sleeping just on the other side of the wall. Near enough that she could call out and he'd hear. Near enough that he could reach her in seconds if she needed him.
Near enough to be dangerous.
The worst part—the part that made her throat tight and her chest ache—was that his presence didn't feel threatening. It should have. She was trapped here, under his supervision, her freedom contingent on his approval. Everything she'd tried to escape on Earth, she'd found again on this station. A cage with better amenities, but still a cage.
He should feel like a threat.
Instead, he felt like safety.
That terrified her more than any locked door ever could.
Because she'd learned young what happened when you depended on people. When you trusted them to be there, to keep you safe, to not leave you alone in the wreckage while the world fell apart around you.
They died.
Or they got old and tired and couldn't handle the weight anymore, leaving you to carry everything alone.
Or they made reckless decisions that got them put in medically induced comas while you survived. Again.
The pattern was clear. Harper was the survivor. The one who kept going while everyone else fell apart or faded away or made choices that destroyed them. She'd accepted that role at twelve years old, sitting in twisted metal with her parents' bodies and the knowledge that she was alone now. Had carried it for twenty years.
She couldn't afford to trust Kirr. Couldn't let herself lean on his steady presence or his quiet competence or the way he made her feel seen for the first time in longer than she could remember.
Because everyone she leaned on got hurt.
And she was already responsible for Delilah bleeding out in a medical bay. She couldn't add Kirr to that list. Couldn't risk him. Couldn't let herself want things she had no business wanting.
Even if his patience undid her. Even if the way he'd reached out to steady her—instinctive, protective, gentle despite all that strength—made something warm unfurl in her chest.
Even if she was lying in the dark, building walls against feelings she wasn't ready to acknowledge.
Harper pressed her fingers against the scar on her forearm, tracing the familiar ridge of tissue. The raised skin was smooth under her fingertips, cooler than the surrounding flesh. The physical reminder that she was the one who survived. The one who kept going. The one who couldn't afford to trust or depend or let herself feel safe.
Because safe was an illusion. Safety meant letting your guard down, and letting your guard down meant loss.
She'd learned that lesson thoroughly. Repeatedly. Brutally.
She wasn't about to forget it now just because a seven-foot warrior made her pulse race and her walls crack.
In his room, the bed creaked as he shifted. The station's ventilation hummed, a constant white noise that should have been soothing but only reminded her how close he was. Then silence again.
Harper closed her eyes and counted her heartbeats. Fifty-three. Fifty-four. Fifty-five. Each one a steady thump against her ribs, too fast, too hard.
Tomorrow she'd see Delilah. Tomorrow she'd start building the distance she needed to survive this. Tomorrow she'd remember that attraction was a luxury she couldn't afford and trust was a risk she couldn't take.
Tonight, she'd just lie here in the dark and pretend she didn't feel safer with him on the other side of the wall than she'd felt in twenty years of fighting to stay alive.
Pretend she wasn't already in danger of depending on him.
Pretend the walls she was building would be enough to keep her heart safe when her body had already decided he was everything she'd been waiting for.
The lies came easier in the dark.
Harper pressed her face into the pillow and breathed in the clean scent of station laundry detergent, impersonal and sterile, and tried not to think about water beading on his chest or the way his golden eyes had looked at her with patience instead of judgment.
