She finishes her food in silence.
I do the same.
And somewhere between the last bite and the clatter of empty dishes, something in the ship feels... different.
Not safer.
Just seen.
CHAPTER 12
ROXY
He’s watching me. Not in the casual, curious way he did before—this is different. Subtle, but sharper. He stands closer now. Not enough for most people to notice, but I do. I feel it like pressure behind the ribs. Like gravity’s playing favorites and his orbit has decided mine is worth pulling.
When I move, so does his gaze. When I speak, he listens longer. When I offer one of my vague, deflective answers, he doesn’t nod and move on anymore—he asks a follow-up. A second pass, like he’s testing for cracks.
“Tell me something,” he says this time, voice low but steady. “What’s your preferred method?”
I blink. “Method?”
“For takedowns. Clean, fast, messy, noisy—what’s your usual go-to?”
I laugh, but it’s shallow. “I don’t really do… usual.”
He waits.
“I improvise,” I say finally. “Standard methods get you standard results.”
He doesn’t respond. Not with words. Just gives this quiet, skeptical grunt and moves past me like the conversation’s over. But I know better. That sound wasn’t dismissal—it was interest.
We don’t talk again until we hit the main corridor. I’m trailing half a step behind, trying to figure out if he’s still suspicious or just normally intense. Then he stops short and turns on me.
“Maintenance run,” he says.
“…Maintenance?”
“You want to be part of the crew? Crew works. We’re due for a shielding recalibration and a conduit pass-through. You’re helping.”
He says it like it’s not up for debate.
It’s not.
“Okay,” I say.
He leads us to the lower deck—tight quarters, metal walls close enough to breathe on. The lighting down here hums with static and old stress, flickering once like it’s debating how much power we deserve. He opens a hatch with a hiss of pressurized air and ducks inside.
I follow.
And immediately regret it.
The access tunnel is barely wide enough for one Vrok, let alone me and all the tension currently wedged between us. He crouches near the conduit housing and pulls a panel open with practiced efficiency.
“Get that junction box,” he says, nodding to a metal case half-exposed behind a wall of tangled wiring.
I crawl in. My shoulder brushes his. I pretend not to feel it. My knee hits his thigh. I pretend I didn’t mean to.
The air in here is warmer, heavier. It smells like heat and ionized metal, with a faint overlay of something earthy—him. It’s distracting in a way that should scare me more than it does.
