His hands curl into fists.
I watch him war with himself—see the lines of conflict drag across the broad planes of his back. He breathes once. Twice.
“Every instinct I have tells me to run,” he says quietly. “But I won’t. Not without you.”
There it is.
My heart aches at the honesty of it. The fragility. The raw.
I reach out and take his hand—because even now, even when the air feels poisoned with fear, I need him to know he’s not alone in this choice.
His fingers tighten around mine, just once.
We don’t say anything else.
But the silence is the wrong shape.
It used to hum—tense, loaded, meaningful in a way that felt like maybe we were both just circling some truth we couldn’t name yet. Now it’s brittle. Sharp. I can hear the drag of his breath, the faint click of his jaw tightening. Even the recycled air feels louder, like the station itself knows we crossed a line we can’t uncross.
He doesn’t move when I step away. Doesn’t try to stop me or follow. He just stands there, spine straight like someone pinned him to the moment and told him not to flinch.
I go to the console. Pull up the map. The interface is sluggish, deliberate—probably throttled to monitor response times, scan patterns, biometric stress. Every tap of my fingers on the surface leaves a little ghost of warmth, like the station’s trying to remember me before it rewrites me.
“You said we have time,” I say without looking at him.
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“Less than we need. More than they think we’ll use.”
I nod once. Not at the answer. At the way he says it. That clipped calm that sounds like he’s already built five different contingencies in his head while I was still brushing my teeth.
I point to the auxiliary wings. “There’s a decommissioned launch bay here. Access tunnels from the lower maintenance decks—if we can get in, we might be able to reroute through the drone shuttle system. They won’t expect a civilian egress through industrial vectors.”
He’s at my side now, silent as shadow. He leans in close, studying the map.
“I’ve seen this schematic,” he murmurs. “But the access hatches were sealed six rotations ago.”
“Sure,” I say, “but they were sealed with Coalition-grade welds. I can burn those out in less than two minutes with a resonance cutter and a little bad attitude.”
His mouth twitches. Almost a smile. Almost.
“We’ll need gear,” he says. “Unregistered. And fast.”
“I know a guy.”
“Of course you do.”
“Hey,” I snap, “just because I’m a data analyst doesn’t mean I don’t have a life.”
He looks at me, head tilting. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You thought it really loud.”
That earns me the faintest huff of breath. Could almost be a laugh, if it weren’t soaked in tension.
“I thought you said no splitting up,” I add, trying to keep the edge out of my voice.
