I nod, trying not to look like I’m collapsing inside from sheer relief. “Thanks.”
He doesn’t say more. Just walks away.
I watch him go, my nerves a livewire mess of triumph and terror.
I survived.
Again.
But every minute I stay, the lie gets bigger.
And I get better at pretending it’s the truth.
CHAPTER 13
VROK
The lights flicker again—third time in the last hour—and my ship groans like it’s sick of both of us.
I tap the side panel hard enough to make it beep in protest. “You better not be dying on me tonight,” I mutter.
Behind me, she laughs. “Talking to it like it’s your pet?”
“It’s got more attitude than most crew I’ve had.”
“You’ve had crew?”
“Briefly.”
She hums. I don’t turn. The truth is, the ship’s attitude isn’t the problem.
It’s the power fluctuation. It’s the glitch in the environmental regulator. It’s the fact that now, during recalibration, both systems—backup and primary—need monitoring, which means manual oversight.
And that means I can’t sleep in the cockpit tonight.
And neither can she.
“This one’s yours,” I say, thumbing the door open to the smaller bunk chamber.
“I figured,” she says. “You’ve been in it the last three nights.”
“You want the cockpit?”
“No.”
She steps inside, surveys the space like she’s calculating her odds of surviving it.
And I stand there.
Because it hits me—how small the room is. How small thedistanceis. And how much of my control is held together by duct tape and denial.
“Cozy,” she says, eyeing the single bunk. “Real subtle, this seduction strategy.”
“I didn’t design it.”
“Youchoseit.”
I let that sit.
