She shook her head. "You don't understand. People around me don't do well." The name cracked in her throat. "Delilah?—"
It's like I'm fucking cursed.
"I'm not dragging you into my wreckage."
She pushed to her feet and backed toward the far wall, putting distance between them, her arms wrapped around herself like she could hold her crumbling pieces.
He rose, looming over her even though he was nowhere near her. “Harper…”
"Don't." She wrapped her arms tight, wouldn't meet his eyes. "Just... give me a minute."
He didn't advance, didn't push, didn't try to close the distance she'd created. His hands hung loose at his sides. His expression was impossible to read, but his gaze burned.
"I'll be in the main room." He paused at the door, as if to argue. Then: "The door stays unlocked."
She stiffened. "No."
His jaw tightened, but he didn't push. "I'll be outside."
He turned and walked out.
The door slid closed behind him.
Slumping against the wall, she pressed her palm flat against the cool surface. Her pulse throbbed in her temples. She listened to the quiet sounds as he moved in the living area.
Her fingers drifted up to her lips. She could still feel the imprint of his mouth, the heat of him, the way he'd held her like she was something precious instead of something broken.
She was in so much trouble.
Because hope was a dangerous thing. Hope got people killed. Hope made you soft, made you believe in things that couldn't last.
But standing here in the dim light of a room that wasn't hers, on a ship full of aliens who shouldn't care whether she lived or died, her ribs ached with it. Small and desperate. Hope, maybe, and she had no idea how to make it stop.
"I cannot believe you people consider this a reasonable hour to be awake." Harper's voice echoed behind him in the corridor, thick with sleep and irritation. "What kind of asshole alien warriors schedule training in the middle of the fucking night?"
Kirr bit back a smile. Draanth, Harper’s sleep-grouchy state was far more appealing than it should be.
"If this station has a 'war crime' setting," she muttered, loud enough for him to hear, "I'm pretty sure this hour qualifies."
His lips quirked. He didn't turn around.
"It's oh-six-hundred," he said. "The day is well begun."
"The day hasn't even bloody started yet. The day is still in bed where normal people belong."
She'd been grumbling since he'd woken her twenty minutes ago, knocking on her door with a warning that she had ten minutes to dress. The look she'd given him when she emerged—hair scraped back in a messy tail, eyes still puffy with sleep, expression suggesting she was contemplating his murder—had hit him right in the chest.
He hadn't slept well himself. Not surprising. He'd lain awake for hours after she retreated to her room, staring at the ceiling, body refusing to settle. The kiss played on repeat behind his eyes... the desperate way she'd pressed against him and the needy sound she'd made against his mouth… how perfectly her small frame fit in his arms.
He'd eventually dealt with the worst of it in the shower. Cold water, then surrender. Neither helped the wanting. The feel of her stayed with him. Refused to fade.
But he was used to nights of fractured sleep, and morning brought focus, discipline and purpose.
And the female who'd shattered his control was trailing behind him, bitching about the hour like she hadn't turned his world inside out less than twelve hours ago.
"I'm not a morning person." She squinted at the ceiling lights as if they'd personally offended her. "If anyone says 'good morning' to me, I will commit a felony."
"Noted."
