"It's a vow. Protection. Consequences. If something happens to you, it lands on him." He met her gaze. "That warrior learned that lesson this morning. After what happened? Everyone's already adjusted. You'll feel it in the corridors."
"But I didn't ask for that."
The healer’s mouth tightened. "No. You didn't, and that's something the two of you will need to navigate. But I can tell you this. His claiming responsibility for you doesn't give him control over your choices. It means he's sworn to support them. Even the ones he disagrees with."
She wasn't sure she believed that. Not completely. But she filed it away to think about later.
He studied her for a moment. "Has Kirr ever hurt you? Made you feel unsafe?"
The question surprised her.
"No." Her nails bit into her palm. "He's been… careful with me. Patient, even when I've been a complete bitch about everything."
Kellat nodded slowly. "He doesn't turn that temper on the people he's guarding. Only on whatever he thinks might touch them."
"So what's his deal?" The question came out before she could stop it. Then, softer: "I'm not asking for details. Just… a headline."
Kellat finally looked away from the monitors and held her gaze long enough that she couldn't dodge.
"He’s a War-Commander. He’s lost people. He's made decisions that cost lives. Not through carelessness, but through impossible choices where no outcome was good." Kellat recalibrated a sensor, his hands steady. "He doesn't sleep much. He double-checks everything. Males don't do that for fun."
Her chest went tight.
She knew that weight. Shit, did she know it. The constant second-guessing, the what-ifs that played on loop at three in the morning, the desperate need to control every variable because if she just tried hard enough, planned well enough, maybe this time no one would get hurt.
"He needs you to let him protect you. If you keep shutting him out, he'll just push harder." Kellat's voice dropped, gentler now. "If you give him a little room… you might be surprised."
The words hit her like a punch to the gut.
Trust him with her fears. Like it was that simple. Like she could just hand over the tangled mess of guilt and terror and desperate hope she'd been carrying since Delilah collapsed, and trust a seven-foot alien warrior not to use it against her.
But that wasn't fair either. He hadn't used anything against her. He'd fed her. Given her a room. Held her while she cried into his chest like she wasn't a goddamn adult who should have her shit together by now.
Kellat gathered his instruments. "You're both sharp in the same places. That can be… compatible." He rose, gathering his tools. "Training would be almost over now, so Kirr will be back soon. Is there anything you need?"
"No, thank you." She stared at the floor for a second. "Can I just stay here until he does?"
“Of course,” Kellat smiled and headed out the door, giving her space.
Harper sat in the quiet hum of the room, the comm device a small weight in her pocket.
The violence this morning made more sense now. It was protection taken to its absolute extreme. Not cruelty or ferocity, and it had been aimed outward, not at her.
She and Kirr were the same—both carrying guilt they couldn't put down, both trying to control everything because losing control meant people died. The realization settled into her bones as the comm device pressed against her thigh through her pocket.
Such a small thing. She pulled it out, turned it over in her palm.
He'd said if she needed him for anything, he'd be there. Her thumb hovered over the activation button. What would happen if she actually used it?
7
Harper dropped onto the low couch in Kirr's quarters and grabbed a dataflex from the side table. She had no idea what was on it and didn't particularly care. The glowing text swam in front of her eyes as she pretended to read, her mind still cycling through everything Kellat had said in medical. The medical data. Delilah's condition… all the things she knew the healer wasn’t telling her.
Kirr settled at his desk across the room. The soft tap of his fingers against some kind of interface filled the silence. Working. Giving her space.
The dataflex went blurry. She blinked hard, forcing herself to focus on… what the hell was it? Some thriller novel she’d picked from the station’s database. She couldn’t even remember the character’s names right now. Her chest felt tight. Too tight. Like someone had wrapped bands around her ribs and was pulling them taut, inch by inch.
"I'm exhausted," she said, and her voice came out steadier than she expected as she put the dataflex on the side table. "I think I’m going to turn in early."
