Then his voice drops. Lower than I’ve ever heard it. “Your presence disrupts protocol.”
“I’m flattered.”
“You should not be.”
I sit up slowly. Let the blanket fall away. Meet his gaze.
“Tell me something true,” I say.
He’s silent. But he doesn’t look away.
“Anything,” I say. “One thing. Not from a file. Not from a script. Just… something.”
He stares at me. Then: “My first command died because I hesitated.”
That’s a punch to the ribs. I didn’t expect that.
“I’ve never spoken of it,” he says. “Not even in report.”
I don’t know what to say. So I say the only thing that matters.
“You’re not hesitating now.”
He steps closer.
And I don’t move.
I feel his presence like static—low-level and constant, just beneath the skin. His boots are quiet on the floor, but the silence between us isn’t empty. It’s alive. Tense. Like the air’s waiting to see what happens next.
His shadow breaks across my legs as he stands near the bed, and I don’t shrink away. I should. I should say something flippant or sarcastic, erect some kind of emotional firewall. But I don’t. Not tonight.
He’s standing close enough that I can see the details of his uniform again—the seam lines in the shoulder plate, the fine micro-etching in the badge at his collar. The station’s ambient light doesn’t quite reach his face. Just outlines it.
“I don’t want to sleep,” I say softly.
He doesn’t respond, not at first. But he doesn’t step back either.
Eventually: “Because of the dream?”
I look up, surprised. “You knew?”
“You woke with increased heart rate and audible breath irregularity.”
“So you were still monitoring me.”
“I am… attuned.”
That answer makes my chest tighten. Not in fear. In something far more dangerous.
I pull my legs up,arms draped loosely over my knees, and rest my chin on them. I feel young suddenly. Small. And I hate it. But I can’t seem to armor myself fast enough.
“You ever lose someone?” I ask, not looking at him.
“Yes.”
“How many?”
There’s a pause. “Seventeen.”
