The door is locked. Lights dimmed to a tolerable setting. The temperature adjusted to the Vakutan ideal—cool, dry, silent.
None of it works.
The hum of the walls is louder than usual. The vibration under my boots pulses unevenly. I try to sync my breathing to the station’s rhythm and fail for the fifth time. My internal equilibrium is fractured. My focus fractured with it.
I attempt meditation. No success.
Combat visualization. No success.
I engage in neural reframing drills, reciting protocol code in my head until the syllables blur into meaninglessness. I still see her.
Every memory of her lands out of order. Not the dangerous moments. The quiet ones.
The way she tucked her knees under herself on that low bench. The small, involuntary smile when she thought I wasn’t watching. The ghost of laughter she bit back after Imisunderstood a metaphor. The softness in her eyes when I admitted I had already broken rules for her.
That look. That moment.
I would sacrifice my posting to see it again.
My hands curl into fists. I flex them open.
I need to move.
The training annex is empty at this hour.
It usually would center me. Ground my limbs in repetition. But tonight, the motion feels disconnected from purpose.
My body moves through the forms—breath to strike to step—but the rhythm falters. The balance is off. She has invaded my axis. My stance favors my left side, protective of where she sat beside me.
Unacceptable.
I pause mid-form, chest rising with exertion. The sweat on my neck cools too fast, a sharp reminder of how vulnerable my control has become.
I can’t purge her.
She’s not a variable anymore.
She’s an orbit.
And I am caught in it.
Later—back in the secured interface room where she works—I make the mistake of watching her again.
She doesn’t notice me at first. Her attention is narrowed to the holodisplay, fingers moving over the console with casual precision. The interface flickers blue and gold under her touch, lines of restricted Coalition code unraveling like thread.
She doesn’t ask for access.
She takes it.
And gods help me, it’s beautiful.
Not just effective.Beautiful.
Not her face—though that would be easy to say. Not the curve of her neck or the focus in her brow. It’s something deeper.Structural. The way she occupies space with full ownership of her mind, her hands, her will. She is not graceful. She is exacting. Like a blade forged to cut lies.
My chest tightens.
She pulls her hair back into a loose knot, tendrils falling against her cheek, and leans closer to the screen. I should look away.
