I retrieve my own ration packet from the wall unit. Hers is warmer. Mine was stored longer. I sit across from her, at the table meant for one, forcing space to accommodate two.
She watches me over her tray.
There’s distance between us.
But no silence.
“So,” she starts, poking the synth-grain mash with her fork. “What exactly does protection mean for you?”
I pause. “Context?”
“For a Vakutan.”
I consider that.
She continues before I can answer. “Because I’ve seen how you stand. How you track exits. How your voice drops whenever you think I’m in danger.” She stabs a piece of protein. “You don’t protect people the way humans do.”
I don’t deny it.
“Is it cultural?” she presses. “Genetic? Instinct?”
“It is not simple.”
“Try me.”
I look at her for a long moment. Her eyes are clear, sharp, but there’s something underneath. Not manipulation. Not leverage.Curiosity.And something else. Something I do not have a name for.
“There is no direct translation,” I say.
“Then give me the closest one.”
I nod once.
I speak the word softly.
“Gav’ora.”
She leans in. “Say it again.”
“Gav’ora.”
She repeats it. “Gav-or—gah. No, wait.” She tries again. “Gah-VOR-uh.”
I close my eyes.
And laugh.
It’s quiet. Barely a breath.
But it’s real.
She freezes.
Then grins. “You laughed.”
“I did not.”
“Oh, you absolutely did. That was a laugh.”
