We’re not landing.
That’s the first red flag. We’re not banking toward some shady motel hangar or a neon-lit alleyway with just enough cover to pretend this is still about club chemistry. No. We’re rising.
Straight up. Clean trajectory. The kind of ascent that doesn’t end in a hookup.
It ends in orbit.
I stare at the viewscreen like I can will it to lie to me. But the planet’s curve is already visible, the soft glow of Novaria stretching out beneath us like a lie I’m about to be caught in.
He hasn’t said a word.
He just moves—smooth, practiced, silent—and the ship hums with the kind of confidence that makes my stomach twist. The control panel reflects off his scales, cold blues and sharp greens dancing over the ridges of his arms like war paint. His hands are steady. Too steady.
I sit in the copilot seat because it feels like I have to be doing something. Because hovering near the door like I might bolt is a dead giveaway, and I am not ready to die yet. My palms aresweating. I wipe them on my thighs, slow, casual. Casual. That’s the goal.
“So,” I say, my voice higher than I want it to be, “uh... what’s the jump window look like tonight?”
He glances at me. Just a glance. Not suspicious. But focused. Measuring.
“Clear,” he says. “No patrol sweeps flagged in this sector. We’ll coast clean.”
Right. Of course. That makes sense. If I were an assassin—theassassin—I'd know that. I’d be tracking sweep cycles and clean vectors and all that other military-sounding bullshit.
I nod, slow. Thoughtful. Like I meant to ask.
Inside, panic slams against the inside of my ribs like a bird that just figured out the window isn’t open. This isn’t what I signed up for. This isn’t a flirty dare or a one-night story I get to bury under three drinks and a shrug. This is aship.
This isleaving the planet.
I shoot a glance at the screen again. Novaria’s almost gone now. The cloud cover peels away like cheap makeup, and we’re high enough that gravity feels more like suggestion than rule.
My throat tightens.
Say something.
Fix this.
But what would I even say?
“Hey, sorry, I’m not actually who you think I am, I just slapped you out of nowhere and now I’m accidentally on your ship and you’re definitely some kind of contract killer and I really just wanted to feel alive for five minutes without ending up in deep space, thanks.”
Yeah. That would go great.
Instead, I do the one thing Icando. I pretend I know what’s happening.
I lean back in the seat, stretching like I’m settling in for a commute, and say, “So. What’s the job? High-tier clearance or just the usual close-and-quiet?”
He doesn’t blink. But I swear the corners of his mouth twitch.
“Figured you’d already know the details,” he says.
Shit. Shitshitshit.
I shrug like it’s no big deal. “I got flagged mid-scout. Had to pivot. This came in while I was still deep in noise. You know how it is. Sometimes they slot you in hot and expect you to pick it up mid-flight.”
I say it all in a tone that I hope lands somewhere between ‘too experienced to explain myself’ and ‘if you ask again, I’ll stab you.’ It's a tightrope, but I walk it with the bravado of someone who hasabsolutely no goddamn idea what she’s doing.
He studies me for a beat too long.
