“Reflexes like that,” I breathe, half-laughing, “and you’re worried aboutmebeing reckless?”
He doesn’t answer. Just holds me a beat longer than he needs to.
Like I’m something fragile.
Like I matter.
The moment stretches, hangs suspended in the thick air of the Hulk like something sacred—or stupid. I haven’t decided yet.
He’s still holding me, arms wrapped around my waist and upper back like I’m some fragile ornament about to shatter on impact. His scales are warm. Not scalding, like I expected, but heated through, like river stones soaking up the sun. I don’t move right away. Not because I’m stunned—though, okay, maybe I am a little—but because he’snotmoving either.
He’s watching me again. Not like I’m prey. Not like I’m bait or a liability or some annoying human screaming for attention.
He watches me like I’m the only real thing left in the universe.
I’ve seen this look before—but only at meet-and-greets. The wide-eyed, glassy, hyper-focused look of a fan seeing their favorite idol up close. Usually it comes with frantic tears, shaky hands, or at least a very sweaty selfie request. That’s not what this is.
This isn’t obsession.
It’s reverence.
And I don’t know what the hell to do with that.
So I break it. I crack it open like I always do, with something flippant and a little reckless.
“You got me, lizard boy,” I say, arching a brow and smirking like my heart isn’t doing somersaults inside my chest. “You always catch girls falling out of consoles, or am I special?”
His head tilts, just slightly. No growl. No snapped comeback. Just that look—like I’ve said something profound instead of stupid.
“You are different,” he says simply.
“Yeah, well, Iama limited edition,” I mutter, trying to wiggle out of his arms. “Collector’s item and everything.”
He doesn’t loosen his grip immediately. Just long enough that I feel it. That pause. That hesitation. Like he’s letting go of something he’s not sure he’ll ever get back.
When he finally steps back, I suck in a breath like I’ve been underwater.
For the record, I’ve dealt with alotof types. Screaming fans, angry exes, creeps in DMs, guys who think “influencer” means “available.” I know how to read a look. I know when someone’s sizing me up for ownership.
But this isn’t that.
This is something stranger. Deeper.
And way more dangerous.
I brush myself off for show and clear my throat. “So. Now that you’ve saved me from certain deathagain,maybe we should talk strategy?”
He grunts in that noncommittal way that I’m starting to read asfine, keep talking, but don’t expect me to say much.
I move back toward the console, this time not trying to fix it. Just pointing at the few blinking nodes still showing life.
“I think this panel’s connected to the maintenance ring outside the core—could be a path around Meyer’s group if they’re clogging up the mid-levels.” I tap Reflector, who’s hovering just over my shoulder. “You got anything on movement?”
Reflector chirps twice, his voice hushed like he’s afraid to disturb something ancient. “Thermal signatures show six bodies grouped near the main junction corridor. The rest of the ship is largely unoccupied.”
Garokk leans closer to the screen, scanning it with eyes like molten metal. “They are waiting. Planning.”
I swallow. “Probably regrouping after One Horn didn’t come back.”
