Chapter 4
The door to Kirr's quarters slid open with a soft hiss that sounded too much like a cell locking.
Harper stepped inside and stopped.
Not a cell. Not even close.
The living area stretched out before her, easily three times the size of the apartment she'd shared with Delilah.
Floor-to-ceiling viewports dominated one wall, showing the curve of Earth hanging in the black beyond.
Furniture in clean lines and dark leather occupied the space—a couch that could seat six humans comfortably, low tables, a work desk positioned to catch the view.
Everything was immaculate. Organized. The kind of space that belonged to someone who had their shit together.
Someone who wasn't her.
"Guest room is through there." Kirr moved past her, his bare shoulders catching the light from the viewport. He still hadn't put on a shirt. "Private bath attached. LMP sent over some basics for you."
She followed him through an archway into a bedroom that made her throat tight.
It was bigger than her entire bedroom back on Earth. A massive bed dominated the space, the kind you could get lost in. More viewports. A desk. Seating area. The attached bath visible through an open door showed tile and fixtures that probably cost more than six months of her rent.
A small bag sat on the bed. Standard issue gray fabric with the LMP logo stamped on the side.
Her life, reduced to one borrowed bag of basics.
"I'll let you settle in." Kirr's voice came from the doorway. "Kitchen's fully stocked if you're hungry. I can show you where everything is, or make you something if you'd prefer—"
"I don't need a babysitter." The words came out sharper than she intended. She didn't turn around. "I can take care of myself."
Silence filled the space behind her. Then his footsteps retreated, quiet and unhurried.
The door slid shut with a soft hiss.
Harper closed her eyes and counted to ten.
Then twenty. She was being a bitch. She knew she was being a bitch.
He was trying to help and she was snapping at him like he'd done something wrong when all he'd done was save her life and take responsibility for her supervised status and offer her a place to stay.
But she couldn't seem to stop.
Couldn't let go of the sharp edges that kept everyone at a distance. It was safer this way. Easier. If she let herself soften, let herself accept his kindness, she'd start wanting things she couldn't have. Start depending on someone who was only stuck with her because of LMP regulations.
She waited until her pulse settled before moving to the bed. The bag's contents were practical—underwear, two sleep shirts, toiletries, a change of clothes. Nothing personal. Nothing that belonged to her.
She shoved the bag onto the floor and sat on the edge of the bed, her hands fisting in the borrowed sleep shirt she still wore.
The medical bay had given her this after cutting away her blood-soaked clothes.
Everything she'd worn to the crash was gone.
Destroyed or disposed of, she didn't know which.
Twenty years of barely surviving and she'd managed to lose everything in less than twenty-four hours.
The view outside the viewport mocked her. Earth hung there like a promise she couldn't keep. Home. Except it wasn't home anymore, was it? Home was a place you could leave and come back to. She'd burned that bridge the moment she'd gotten in Delilah's flyer car.
Her fingers found the scar on her left forearm, traced the familiar ridge through the thin fabric. The crash had added new cuts that crossed the old tissue. Past and present literally layered on the same skin.
Story of her life.
She should unpack. Put the basics away. Make some attempt to settle in like Kirr had suggested.
But unpacking meant accepting this. Meant admitting she was stuck here, in his quarters, under his supervision. A grown woman reduced to supervised status because she couldn't control her cousin's bad decisions.
The bag stayed on the floor.
Harper stood and moved to the viewport, pressing her palm against the cool surface.
Earth rotated slowly below, clouds swirling over continents she could barely make out from this distance.
Somewhere down there, her apartment sat empty.
Her job—if she still had one—waited for her to not show up. Her life continued without her.
And she was trapped up here.
A cage with a view.
Time passed. She didn't know how much. The light from Earth shifted as the station rotated, painting the guest room in shades of blue and white.
She heard Kirr moving around in the main quarters—footsteps, the quiet sounds of someone living their life.
No hovering. No checking on her. Just... there.
Which should have been a relief.
Instead, it made her more aware of him. More conscious of the fact that she was in his space, breathing his air, existing in his world while hers fell apart.
She retreated to the bed and lay down, staring at the ceiling. The mattress was too soft. The pillows too perfect. Everything about this room screamed comfort and safety and she wanted to reject all of it on principle.
Her stomach growled.
She ignored it.
It growled again, louder, reminding her she hadn't eaten since... when? Yesterday morning? The day blurred together in her memory—the crash, the panic, the medical bay, the LMP officer with her datapad and her judgment.
The crash had been yesterday. This morning, technically. Time zones didn't matter much when you were in orbit.
Her stomach clenched, demanding attention.
Fine.
She'd eat. Because starving herself wouldn't change anything and would just prove she couldn't take care of herself. Give the LMP more ammunition for why she didn't belong in the mate program.
Harper pushed off the bed and opened the door carefully, listening for sounds of Kirr in the main quarters. His voice carried from somewhere—speaking in that flowing language she couldn't understand yet. On his comm unit, probably. Working.
Good. Maybe she could slip in and out of the kitchen without having to interact.
She padded across the living area on bare feet, hyperaware of every sound she made. The kitchen occupied the far corner, separated from the main space by a long counter. Clean lines. Gleaming surfaces. A cooling unit that probably had actual food in it instead of condiments and expired leftovers.
The door opened with a soft hum. She stared at the contents.
Holy shit.
Fresh vegetables. Actual meat. Things that didn't come from a package or require adding water. Her mouth watered just looking at it all.
"Everything's labeled if you're not sure what it is."
She jumped, her hand flying to her chest. Her pulse hammered against her palm.
Kirr sat at his desk in the living area, datapad in hand, looking at her with those golden eyes. He'd put on a shirt at some point—dark fabric that stretched across his shoulders and made him look less naked but somehow more dangerous.
"I'm fine." Her voice came out defensive. "I can figure it out."
"Didn't say you couldn't." He returned his attention to the datapad. "Just trying to help."
Help. Right. Because she was the supervised flight risk who needed help finding food like a child.
Heat flooded her face. She grabbed items from the shelves without really looking at them, her movements sharp with irritation she had no right to feel. He was being nice. Helpful. Normal. And she was being a bitch because she couldn't stand how helpless this whole situation made her feel.
She pulled things out—something that looked like cheese, vegetables she recognized, bread that smelled fresh. Her hands shook slightly as she tried to balance everything. The interior was organized with military precision, taller items in back, shorter in front, everything accessible.
Of course it was.
She reached for something on the top shelf—a container of what looked like fruit. Her fingers just brushed it. She stretched, rising on her toes, and her balance shifted wrong.
The world tilted.
His hand closed around her elbow, steadying her before she could fall. His other hand braced against the door above her head, his massive frame suddenly right there, surrounding her, blocking out everything else.
Harper froze.
The heat of him hit her first. His body radiated warmth that cut through the thin sleep shirt, made her skin prickle with awareness.
She could smell him—something spiced and male and entirely too appealing.
His chest was inches from her back. If she leaned just slightly, she'd be pressed against him.
Her pulse spiked. Not from fear.
Oh god, not from fear.
"Careful." His voice rumbled through his chest into her back, quiet and close. His hand stayed on her elbow, his thumb brushing the sensitive skin of her inner arm.
She couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Her entire world had narrowed to the points of contact—his hand on her arm, his body heat against her back, the way his breath stirred the hair at her temple.
He reached past her easily, his arm extending over her head with no strain. His fingers closed around the container she'd been reaching for and brought it down, offering it to her.
"Here."
She took it. Her fingers trembled when they touched his, just for a second, skin to skin.
Then he stepped back.
The absence of his heat felt like loss.
Harper's breath came out shaky. She stared at the container in her hands—some kind of berries, purple and unfamiliar—and tried to remember how to form words.
"Thanks." It came out barely audible.
"Any time."
She heard him return to his desk. Heard the quiet rustle of fabric as he sat. Heard the tap of his fingers on the datapad screen.
Like nothing had happened.
Like he hadn't just made her entire body light up with nothing more than proximity and steady hands.