I hesitate. I’ve lived on shipboard corridors and human dread so long I forget what softness can feel like without suspicion. I trace a finger over the seam. My palm presses against the cloth.
“Idiot,” I mutter. My voice barely more than dust on old stone.
Because it’s ridiculous. Stupid. Absurd. A token cloak from a Reaper warlord whose bones I barely understand, whose danger — and history — are scarred deep across moons.
Still — I slip it on.
The warmth seeps instantly. Not heavy. Not suffocating. Just... protective. As if someone folded away the cold for me, left me shelter in a shell made for survival. I pull the hood over my hair. The weighted fabric settles around my shoulders. The edges brush against my collarbone — the same place his claws scraped, the same place I still feel phantom burns in cold nights.
I catch a glint of myself in the metal panel beside the bunk. The cloak hangs on me like a second skin. I look oddly human. Grounded. Somehow… allowed to breathe.
A soft clank outside the door — the corridor lighting switching over, footfalls on metal deck. I freeze, half-expecting armor, boots, him.
A beat passes. Then another.
I don’t know what I expect him to do. Knock. Demand. Show up as if to claim me again. But what Iwant— and what scares me — is different.
Cautious. Fragile. Maybe even hopeful.
But nothing happens.
I shrug the cloak tighter around me and walk out. The corridors are gray lit and humming. The smell of recycled air and machine polish fills my nostrils. I move with extra care — aware of how the cloak sways gently as I walk, how the soft fabric makes no sound against the floor.
I pass the mess hall door. I push it open — not to get food. Just to see.
His silhouette stands there, half in shadow, half in the dull corridor light. He’s not blocking the door. He’s not leaning menacingly. He’s just… waiting. Watching.
He doesn’t move as I step in. The floor creaks under his weight. His armor — bone-plated, welded — rattles quietly. The damp hum of the ventilation swirls around us, mixing with the faint scent of stale coffee and oil.
I stop just inside the threshold. I feel the cloak hug my shoulders, warm and soft. I feel his gaze, heavy, like gravity.
He doesn’t speak. I don’t speak. The time between us crackles.
Finally, I cross my arms. I raise my chin.
“If this is your idea of courtship,” I say, voice dry as old pipe smoke, “I’ve had better from auto-mail spam.”
He shifts his weight, as though he’s tempted to reach out — or maybe to strike. I don’t flinch. Not now.
“Give me a target,” he says after a moment, cool, low. His voice is a blade wrapped in silk. “I’ll improve.”
The words echo. They hang between us.
I tilt my head. My eyes catch the gleam of his bone-spurs in the dim light — silent danger. And the warmth of the cloak against my skin pulses like a heartbeat.
I look down at the floor. I think of the nights I spent scrubbing decks, empty corridors, the echo of my own footsteps as company. I think of all the times I refused to believe I deserved softness. All the times I swallowed fear so deep it tasted like bitterness.
I lift my eyes again, meet his.
“Don’t,” I say softly. “Make promises you can’t keep.”
For a second I think he might hate me. Anger might crack his calm. But he simply tilts his head. Studies me. There’s silence — long and tight.
Then he nods. Slight. Almost respectful. Maybe even uncertain.
“Fine,” he says. “You set the target. I’ll hit it.”
I swallow. My voice is low. Truthful. Real.
