Chapter 4 #3
Oh god. She was staring at her jailer like he was dessert and he'd caught her doing it. She needed to say something, but her mouth had stopped cooperating.
"I—bathroom—wrong one—sorry—" The words tumbled out in a graceless rush.
His lips quirked. Not quite a smile, but close. "Other door. To your left."
Right. The other bathroom. She'd somehow picked his. Of course she had.
"Thanks." She backed up a step, then another. The cool floor against her bare feet grounded her for half a second. Her heel caught on nothing—her own foot probably—and she stumbled.
He moved forward, one hand reaching out to steady her.
She was already recovering, already putting more distance between them. Away from that heat, that scent, that overwhelming presence.
"I'm fine." Too fast. Too defensive. "I'm fine. Just—bathroom. I'll just—"
She fled.
The guest bathroom door shut behind her with a hiss and she pressed her back against it, eyes closed, temples pounding like she'd just sprinted a mile. Her skin was too hot, her hands trembling against the smooth door panel.
What the hell was wrong with her?
She'd seen attractive men before. Had dated, even, back when she'd had time for stupid things like relationships. But this—this gut-punch reaction to seeing him wet and half-naked—was something else entirely.
Dangerous.
Harper forced herself away from the door and used the bathroom on autopilot. Her hands shook when she washed them. The water ran cold, shocking against her overheated skin. Her reflection in the mirror showed flushed cheeks and pupils blown too wide.
Get it together.
He was her supervisor. Her jailer, for all practical purposes. The man who controlled whether she stayed on this station or got shipped back to Earth. Attraction wasn't just inappropriate—it was stupid. Self-destructive. The kind of thing that led to bad decisions and worse consequences.
She'd spent twenty years making sure other people's bad decisions didn't destroy her. She wasn't about to start making her own now.
Harper dried her hands on a towel that was softer than anything she'd owned on Earth and stared at her reflection for three more seconds, rebuilding her walls piece by piece. Calm. Controlled. Defensive enough to keep him at a distance.
She could do this.
The door slid open and she stepped into the hallway, half-expecting to find him still there.
Empty. The steam had cleared. Nothing left but the faint scent of soap lingering in the air and that spice that was purely him.
Good.
She started back toward the guest room, her steps quick and quiet.
"Harper."
She stopped. Turned. Her bare feet stuck slightly to the floor, the friction holding her in place.
Kirr stood in his bedroom doorway, fully dressed now in dark sleep pants and a shirt that stretched across his shoulders. His hair was still damp but no longer dripping. No bare chest. No water tracing down muscle. Just him, looking at her with those steady golden eyes.
"You okay?"
The question was gentle. No teasing. No acknowledgment of her staring or her graceless retreat or the fact that she'd practically run away from him. Just genuine concern.
Something tightened in her chest.
"Fine." The word came out rougher than intended. She cleared her throat. "Just tired."
He studied her for a moment, and she had the uncomfortable feeling he could see straight through the lie. But he just nodded, accepting her words without challenge.
"Get some rest." He stepped back into his room. "I'll wake you in the morning for medical bay visiting hours."
The door shut before she could respond.
Harper stood in the dim hallway for ten seconds, staring at his closed door. Then she retreated to the guest room and pressed her back against the door the moment it sealed behind her.
Her pulse still jumped erratically beneath her skin.
Heat still crawled over her face and neck.
Her borrowed sleep shirt clung to her back, damp with nervous sweat.
She could still see him standing there—water beading on his chest, towel slung low, all that controlled power wrapped in calm patience.
No.
She pushed away from the door and climbed into bed, pulling the covers up even though she wasn't cold. The sheets were cool against her overheated skin, crisp and clean-smelling. The guest room was dark except for Earth's glow painting everything blue through the viewport.
In his room, movement. The creak of his bed taking his weight. The sound traveled through the wall, intimate and close. The soft rustle of fabric. Then silence.
He was settling for the night. Going to sleep like nothing had happened. Like she hadn't just stared at him like—
Stop it.
Harper closed her eyes and tried to regulate her breathing. In for four counts. Hold for seven. Out for eight. The technique had gotten her through panic attacks and survivor's guilt and twenty years of barely keeping her head above water.
It didn't help now.
Because her mind kept replaying the way water had traced down his chest. The way his hand had reached out to steady her, instinctive and gentle. The way he'd looked at her with patience instead of judgment when she'd fled like a startled animal.
She rolled onto her side, facing away from the door. Away from where she knew he was sleeping just on the other side of the wall. Near enough that she could call out and he'd hear. Near enough that he could reach her in seconds if she needed him.
Near enough to be dangerous.
The worst part—the part that made her throat tight and her chest ache—was that his presence didn't feel threatening.
It should have. She was trapped here, under his supervision, her freedom contingent on his approval.
Everything she'd tried to escape on Earth, she'd found again on this station.
A cage with better amenities, but still a cage.
He should feel like a threat.
Instead, he felt like safety.
That terrified her more than any locked door ever could.
Because she'd learned young what happened when you depended on people. When you trusted them to be there, to keep you safe, to not leave you alone in the wreckage while the world fell apart around you.
They died.
Or they got old and tired and couldn't handle the weight anymore, leaving you to carry everything alone.
Or they made reckless decisions that got them put in medically induced comas while you survived. Again.
The pattern was clear. Harper was the survivor.
The one who kept going while everyone else fell apart or faded away or made choices that destroyed them.
She'd accepted that role at twelve years old, sitting in twisted metal with her parents' bodies and the knowledge that she was alone now. Had carried it for twenty years.
She couldn't afford to trust Kirr. Couldn't let herself lean on his steady presence or his quiet competence or the way he made her feel seen for the first time in longer than she could remember.
Because everyone she leaned on got hurt.
And she was already responsible for Delilah bleeding out in a medical bay. She couldn't add Kirr to that list. Couldn't risk him. Couldn't let herself want things she had no business wanting.
Even if his patience undid her. Even if the way he'd reached out to steady her—instinctive, protective, gentle despite all that strength—made something warm unfurl in her chest.
Even if she was lying in the dark, building walls against feelings she wasn't ready to acknowledge.
Harper pressed her fingers against the scar on her forearm, tracing the familiar ridge of tissue.
The raised skin was smooth under her fingertips, cooler than the surrounding flesh.
The physical reminder that she was the one who survived.
The one who kept going. The one who couldn't afford to trust or depend or let herself feel safe.
Because safe was an illusion. Safety meant letting your guard down, and letting your guard down meant loss.
She'd learned that lesson thoroughly. Repeatedly. Brutally.
She wasn't about to forget it now just because a seven-foot warrior made her pulse race and her walls crack.
In his room, the bed creaked as he shifted. The station's ventilation hummed, a constant white noise that should have been soothing but only reminded her how close he was. Then silence again.
Harper closed her eyes and counted her heartbeats. Fifty-three. Fifty-four. Fifty-five. Each one a steady thump against her ribs, too fast, too hard.
Tomorrow she'd see Delilah. Tomorrow she'd start building the distance she needed to survive this. Tomorrow she'd remember that attraction was a luxury she couldn't afford and trust was a risk she couldn't take.
Tonight, she'd just lie here in the dark and pretend she didn't feel safer with him on the other side of the wall than she'd felt in twenty years of fighting to stay alive.
Pretend she wasn't already in danger of depending on him.
Pretend the walls she was building would be enough to keep her heart safe when her body had already decided he was everything she'd been waiting for.
The lies came easier in the dark.
Harper pressed her face into the pillow and breathed in the clean scent of station laundry detergent, impersonal and sterile, and tried not to think about water beading on his chest or the way his golden eyes had looked at her with patience instead of judgment.
Tried not to want things she couldn't have.
Failed.