“Yes,” he says.
Silence stretches between us, thick and charged.
I turn back to the waveform, magnifying the amplitude variance. The curve is too clean. The subharmonic fluctuations too controlled.
“They accessed your docking scan,” I say, more to myself than to him.
“Yes.”
“That requires high-level clearance.”
“Yes.”
“Or internal breach.”
“Yes.”
I drag my hand down my face slowly.
“I thought this was about species hatred,” I admit quietly. “I thought someone wanted war.”
“They do,” Kael replies.
“But through surgical destabilization,” I finish.
“Yes.”
I let out a slow, shaky breath.
“So when you offered to let me disembark,” I say, meeting his gaze again, “that wasn’t indifference.”
“No.”
“It was you trying to protect me.”
“It was me acknowledging your autonomy,” he corrects.
“There isn’t autonomy anymore,” I say bitterly, gesturing toward the frozen broadcast still glowing faintly in the corner of the screen. “They branded me collaborator in under five minutes.”
“You stepped into plasma fire,” he says quietly.
“I panicked.”
“You acted.”
His eyes hold mine steadily.
“You did not hesitate.”
The memory crashes over me—the bolt streaking toward my chest, his body intercepting it, the impact driving us both into the wall. The smell of burned composite. The sound of his breath against my ear.
My pulse spikes again.
“That wasn’t politics,” I say.
“No,” he agrees.
“That’s the problem.”
