But it doesn’t.
And that’s when I realize the truth.
I was never supposed to love Rhea Hart.
She was supposed to be a firework—brilliant, fleeting, untouchable. A wild night before a darker morning. But she wasn’t. She isn’t.
She’s gravity.
She’s consequence.
And now I’m circling her like a fool, pretending the heat I feel isn’t a death sentence.
The bunk groans as she shifts again. This time, she wakes. I know the exact moment her breathing changes.
Her voice is quiet. Scratchy from sleep.
“You still up?”
“Yeah.”
I don’t elaborate.
She blinks at me. The light from the terminal makes her eyes look too big, too blue. “Something happen?”
“No.”
Lie.
She sits up, rubbing her face. Her hair’s a mess. I like it like that.
“You’re a terrible liar,” she mutters.
“And you’re terrible at pretending you don’t know when I’m hiding something.”
We stare at each other for a long moment.
Then she says, “If you’re about to go off and do something stupid and suicidal, at least tell me. Don’t just vanish.”
I look away.
Which is how she knows I’m thinking about it.
“Valtron,” she says, voice sharper now. “What aren’t you telling me?”
I shake my head. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It does to me.”
I bite the inside of my cheek.
Then, softly, “I got a ghost ping. High priority. Black-code.”
Her face doesn’t change much, but her hands clench in her lap.
“What kind of mission?”
I don’t answer.
