I don’t move.
Because she’s leaning against my shoulder now.
Not heavily. Just enough for the weight of her to register—warmth and trust and the quiet gravity of someone who’s decided they don’t have to armor themselves to sit close.
I don’t breathe for a moment.
Not deeply, anyway.
If I move too fast, I might break whatever this is.
But she doesn’t pull away.
And I don’t want her to.
Her body’s warm. I can feel it through the seams in my gear. Her hair brushes the side of my jaw when she shifts to get a better angle on the pad.
She still doesn’t look at me.
But her voice cuts through the quiet, soft and steady.
“You don’t have to protect me like I’m breakable.”
It’s not a challenge.
Not a plea.
Just truth.
I let it sit there for a second. Let it breathe between us. My instincts are already primed to counter—to explain that I’m trained to protect, that vigilance is just part of how I survive. But I stop myself.
Because that’s not what she’s really saying.
She’s saying:I’m not a weakness.
And she’s right.
I shift just enough to angle my head toward hers, eyes still locked on the dark ahead.
“I don’t protect you because you’re fragile,” I say, low. “I protect you because you’re mine.”
The words leave me like a confession I didn’t know I needed to make.
Her breath catches.
Just barely.
I feel it where her body meets mine—a hitch, like surprise and understanding hit at the same time.
Still, she doesn’t pull away.
She doesn’t answer, either.
But her head leans in just a little more.
And that’s enough.
We sit there, side by side, data flickering between her hands while the rest of the world narrows to this one breathless moment. There’s a hum in the air—low and steady from the station’s decaying core—but the loudest thing in the room is her silence.
