“I should check the guest quarters environmental controls,” I say finally. Professional. Neutral. “Make sure everything’s optimal.”
“Oh. Okay.” She doesn’t look at me. “I can come with you if—”
“No need. Finish your coffee. I’ll be quick.”
The guest quarters are neat. Almost unnaturally so for someone who’s been staying three days. Her few belongings carefully arranged. The bed made with perfect corners.
And partially visible under the bed—a corner of fabric.
I crouch. Pull it out.
Her courier bag. The one she arrived with. Packed. Ready.
My hands shake as I open it. Spare clothes. Ration packs for three days. Her personal tablet with nav charts plotted—I recognize the trajectory. Junction One. She was going to run straight back to Mother Morrison, lead the collectors away from here.
Away from us.
The rage hits first. Hot. Immediate. She’s still planning to leave. Despite my offer to help. Despite Tavia’s attachment. Despite everything building between us.
Then the hurt. She doesn’t trust me to protect her. Doesn’t think I’m capable of keeping her safe.
Then—underneath both—understanding.
She’s terrified. And terror makes people run. Makes them choose flight over fight, solitude over risk.
I carefully repack the bag. Place it back exactly where I found it.
Then I go find her.
She’s at the communications station, staring at a star chart with unfocused eyes.
“You’re still planning to run,” I say quietly.
She goes very still. Doesn’t turn around. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Your bag is packed. Hidden under the bed in the guest quarters.” I move closer. Not touching. Close enough to feel her warmth. “Ration packs for three days. Nav charts plotted for Junction One. You were going to leave. Without saying goodbye. Without giving me a chance to help.”
“Cetus—”
“When?” My voice comes out rougher than intended. “When were you planning to go? Before the collectors arrived? After? In the middle of the night so Tavia wouldn’t see?”
She turns to face me. Her eyes are red-rimmed. “I won’t let them hurt her. If I’m gone when they arrive—”
“They’ll chase you across the sector. Hunt you down. Hurt you.” I close the distance between us. She backs into the console—nowhere to go. I brace my hands on either side of her, caging her in. Not touching. Close enough that my warmth wraps around her. “You think I’d let you face that alone? You think I’d choose safety over you?”
“You should! You have Tavia to think about—”
“I am thinking about Tavia! I’m thinking about how losing you would break her heart.” My hands slide from the console to frame her face. “How it would break mine.”
Her breath catches. “You barely know me—”
“I know enough. I know you make my daughter laugh. I know you fixed my station’s power grid in three hours. I know you were willing to face collectors alone to protect us.” The harmonics in my voice intensify. Claiming frequency. “I know you’re worth fighting for.”
“They’re dangerous—”
“So am I.” My thumb brushes across her cheekbone. “You don’t run from me, Dove. You don’t leave my protection. You don’t make me explain to Tavia why I let you walk into danger.”
“I can’t ask you to—”
