Behind me, I heard Turnip’s low rumble of warning, softer now than it had been.
We had work to do. Plans to make. A fight to prepare for.
But first, there were dishes. And morning light. And the strange, unexpected comfort of not being alone.
KALLUM
Four days on her farm, and I’d learned to read her movements.
The way she checked the eastern fence first thing every morning, walking the line with Turnip at her side. The way she paused at Torek’s grave on the north ridge, just for a moment, before continuing her rounds. The way her shoulders dropped a fraction when she stepped back inside the house, the tension of vigilance easing into something softer.
I’d learned other things too. The schedule of her chores. The sounds she made in the kitchen when she thought no one was listening, soft humming that cut off whenever I came near. The way she held her rifle, finger off the trigger but ready, even when she was just walking between buildings.
Torek had trained her well. But the fear underneath, the watchfulness that never quite turned off, that wasn’t training. That was history. Something that had happened to her before she came here, before Torek found her.
I didn’t ask. Some things weren’t mine to know.
We fell into a routine without discussing it. Mornings, I walked the perimeter while she handled the animals. Afternoons, I helped with whatever needed fixing. There wasalways something. A fence post rotted through. A solar collector knocked off alignment by wind. The endless small failures of infrastructure maintained by one person for too long.
She let me help now. Didn’t bristle when I appeared beside her with tools. Still didn’t trust me, not really, but she’d stopped treating me like an intruder. I’d become something else. Something she hadn’t decided how to categorize yet.
The fourth morning, I found her in the equipment shed, staring at a piece of machinery I didn’t recognize.
“The cultivator,” she said without turning. “The drive belt snapped.”
I moved closer. Looked at the mechanism, the frayed edges of the broken belt. “Do you have a replacement?”
“I ordered one months ago. Same as the pump seal.” She laughed, but there was no humor in it. “Supply shipments to this rock are unreliable on a good day. Half the time they’re late. Half the time they never arrive at all.”
“And you can’t leave to get them yourself.”
“Can’t leave the farm unattended. Can’t leave the—” She stopped. Shook her head. “Doesn’t matter. The cultivator’s down and I can’t prep the south field, which means I’ll lose a third of next season’s yield.” She met my eyes. “If there is a next season.”
I looked at the cultivator. At the belt housing. At the drive mechanism that was simpler than it first appeared.
“I can jury-rig something,” I said. “Won’t last through a full season, but it’ll get you through the prep work.”
She stared at me. “You can fix cultivators.”
“I can fix most things.” I crouched beside the machine, examining the connection points. “When you spend years alone on a ship, you learn to improvise.”
She was quiet for a moment. Then she crouched beside me. I caught her scent, something clean and warm, underneath the scent of hay and machine oil.
“Show me,” she said.
I showed her.
We worked together for two hours, cannibalizing parts from other equipment, fabricating a temporary belt from materials never meant for the purpose. She learned fast. Asked sharp questions. Her hands were steady and precise, holding components in place while I made adjustments.
“Hold this steady.” I pointed to the housing bracket.
She shifted closer, bracing it with both hands. Her shoulder pressed against my arm. Neither of us moved away.
We worked like that for ten minutes. I was aware of every breath she took.
When we both reached for the same wrench, our fingers brushed. She pulled back like she’d been burned.
“Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to?—”
