The afternoon sunpresses low against the canyon rim, bathing the world in that bruised, gold-washed light that makes everything look half-remembered and half-real. Even the dust seems softer right now, less sharp, as though this planet concedes brief moments of beauty between its fits of fury.
I find him where I left him — at the edge of the dome, crouched in the fractured light like some gargoyle carved into stone. He doesn’t turn when I approach, but I see his shoulders shift, a tiny tense ripple in muscle that doesn’t belong to someone asleep. He’salert, sensing me before he sees me.
I come to him with two water canisters in hand and a pair of nutrient bars — the kind that taste like damp cardboard but nourish like promise. I hesitate a foot away, not because I’m afraid but because I don’t want to startle him.
His eyes flick to the water first, then to me. Something unreadable ripples through those golden irises — curiosity, caution, something softer, almost like longing.
I kneel on the dusty rock, careful not to make a sound that might break whatever fragile moment we’re suspended in.
“I got more water,” I say, voice warm beneath the late light. “And food.” I set the bars down beside him and ease open a canister, letting the hiss of cool liquid fill the air between us. “I figured you might be thirsty.”
He doesn’t reach for any of it — not yet — but hewatches.
I settle across from him and choose a bar, breaking the wrapper with a quiet snap. I offer him the second one by gesture alone, not pushing, just placing it in the space where his gaze lingers.
For a long moment, he doesn’t move.
I take a sip of water, and the cool washes over my tongue — metallic, clean, necessary. I close my eyes for just a moment, savoring the relief of it. When I open them again, I see a faint trace of something in his expression — recognition? Approval? I’m never sure with him.
Silence settles, thick in the best possible way. Not awkward. Not tense.
Just...present.
It feels sacred.
I watch his hands — huge, scaled, scarred with lines that aren’t just age, butstory. Almost instinctively, I reach out and gently brush a fingertip across one of the scars that rims his forearm — long, raised, the color of dark copper beneath his hair.
He tenses.
Just for a moment.
But doesn’t pull away.
“My arm,” I murmur, touching my own forearm, where a faded scar snakes down near the wrist. “I got this banged up when I fell headfirst into a crevice back on Earth. Teacher thought I was reckless. Dad just shook his head.” I press the pad of my finger over my skin, the old injury a reminder of something foolish and brave all at once.
His eyes follow the motion. There’s a flicker there — pain, maybe? Or understanding? It’s subtle, like light through a prism.
Then, his voice comes — low, rough like stone rubbing against steel.
“I lose more than I win,” he says. It’s not loud. Not a complaint. Just... fact.
It’s the most he’s said — in asentence— ever.
I blink.
Really blink.
Then I smile.
Not pity. Not sorrow. Just acceptance.
“You’vefoughta lot,” I say quietly. Meaningful, but not chastising. “Everyone has marks. Everyone’s got stories under their skin.”
He watches my hand again, like it’s still lingering in the air where mine was.
I tuck my legs beneath me. The rock here is warm — radiating the day’s sun like memory. I take another drink of water.
“I wasn’t always a scientist,” I say, letting the words settle between us like seeds waiting to sprout. “I wanted to be an artist at first. My sisters used to make fun of me. They’d say I couldn’t even draw a straight line without it looking like a question mark.”
