25. Stacy
STACY
I don’t plan to go to him.
That would be cleaner, more efficient, more aligned with the decision I’ve already made, but efficiency has never accounted for…
this, for the way something unresolved keeps pulling at me, quiet but persistent, like a thread I can’t cut cleanly no matter how precise I try to be.
The corridor outside his quarters feels different than the rest of the ship, quieter, insulated, like the noise of everything else—war prep, tension, fracture—has been deliberately kept out of this space, and for a moment I just stand there, my hand hovering near the panel, my reflection faint in the darkened metal.
I should leave.
I know that.
Every calculation I’ve made, every outcome I’ve mapped, points in one direction, and hesitation doesn’t change the result, it just complicates it.
But my hand still lifts.
Still presses the panel.
The door opens.
He’s inside, standing near the far wall, shoulders squared, tension visible in the way he holds himself even before he turns, and when he does, the shift in his attention is immediate, sharp, locking onto me in a way that feels physical.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he says, his voice low, but there’s something under it—something tight, something restless.
“Probably not,” I reply, stepping inside anyway, letting the door close behind me with a soft hiss that seals the space, isolates it.
He watches me cross the room, his gaze tracking every step, not questioning, not stopping me, just… watching, and the weight of that attention settles across my skin like heat.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
I don’t answer right away, because I don’t have one that fits cleanly into what this is supposed to be, and I can feel him reading that hesitation, measuring it, trying to understand it.
“I needed to see you,” I say finally.
That lands.
I see it in the way his posture shifts slightly, not relaxing, not softening, but recalibrating.
“Why?” he asks.
The question isn’t simple.
Neither is the answer.
“Because things are about to change,” I say, keeping my voice steady, even as something tightens in my chest.
“They already have,” he replies, stepping closer now, slow and deliberate, closing the distance in a way that feels intentional. “You don’t need to tell me that.”
“I know,” I say.
“Then explain it,” he presses, stopping just short of me, close enough that I can feel the heat of him, the faint metallic scent of his skin, sharper here, more immediate.
I look up at him.
And for a second, I almost do.
Almost tell him everything.
Almost break the plan open before it can hold.
Instead, I lift my hand and place it against his chest, feeling the steady, powerful rhythm beneath it, the heat of him grounding in a way that is dangerous because it makes everything else feel less certain.
“This doesn’t get to be complicated,” I say quietly.
His hand closes around my wrist instantly, not rough, not gentle, just firm enough to stop me from pulling away.
“It already is,” he says.
I hold his gaze.
“Then don’t make it worse.”
His jaw tightens.
“That’s not how this works,” he replies, his voice dropping lower, something sharper threading through it now. “You don’t get to walk in here, say something like that, and expect me to?—”
“I’m not asking you to do anything,” I cut in, my tone even “I’m telling you what I need.”
“And what exactly is that?” he demands.
I don’t look away.
“You.”
The word lands between us, simple and loaded at the same time, and I feel the shift in him immediately, the way his grip tightens slightly, the way his breath changes, just enough to register.
“For how long?” he asks.
There’s something in the question that almost breaks me.
Almost.
“Right now,” I say.
His eyes search mine, not casually, not lightly, but with a precision that makes it clear he’s looking for something I can’t let him find.
“You’re not telling me something,” he says.
“I’m telling you enough,” I reply.
“That’s not the same thing.”
“No,” I agree. “It isn’t.”
The tension stretches between us, thick, tangible, and I can feel the moment where he decides not to push further, not because he doesn’t want to, but because something in him chooses not to.
His hand slides from my wrist to my jaw, rougher now, more certain, his thumb brushing along my cheek in a way that feels less like inspection and more like confirmation.
“You don’t get to disappear after this,” he says.
The words hit harder than anything else.
I don’t react.
Not visibly.
“I’m not disappearing,” I reply.
That’s not a lie.
Just not the truth he means.
His gaze narrows slightly, like he’s trying to pull something out of me that I won’t give, and for a second it feels like he might keep pushing, might force it open.
Instead, he leans in.
And everything shifts.
The contact isn’t gentle.
It isn’t hesitant. There’s something under it now, something less restrained, something that’s been building and finally has somewhere to go.
My hand moves without thinking, sliding up along his shoulder, fingers catching briefly on the edge of bone before settling, anchoring, and the sensation sends a sharp line of awareness through me that I can’t ignore even if I wanted to.
“You’re not thinking clearly,” he murmurs against my mouth.
“I am,” I whisper back, my voice steady even as my pulse refuses to match it.
“That’s worse.”
“Probably.”
He huffs something that might be a laugh, low and rough, and then he stops talking.
Which is better.
Because if he keeps talking, I might answer, and if I answer, I might say something I can’t take back.
His hands shift, one sliding to my waist, pulling me closer, the movement firm, unyielding, and I let it happen, step into it instead of resisting, because this—this is something I chose.
Not the circumstances.
Not the outcome.
But this moment.
The room feels smaller, warmer, the air thicker, and I can feel every point of contact with a clarity that borders on overwhelming, his grip, his breath, the way he moves like he’s holding something back even now.
“You’re different tonight,” he says quietly, his voice lower, more focused.
“So are you,” I reply.
“I have reason.”
“So do I.”
He pauses at that, just enough to register it, and I feel the question form before he says it.
“What reason?”
I don’t answer.
Instead, I shift closer, closing the last of the distance myself, taking the control of it back just enough to redirect where this goes, because if I let him lead completely, he’ll start asking questions I can’t afford to answer.
His hands tighten slightly in response, not resisting, but acknowledging the shift, and for a moment we’re balanced in that space, neither of us fully in control, both of us aware of it.
“Stacy,” he starts.
I cut him off the only way that works.
He doesn’t fight it.
He doesn’t question it.
He meets it, matches it, and whatever restraint he was holding fractures just enough to change the shape of everything that follows.
Time stops mattering.
Not in a dramatic way.
In a precise one.
Measured in breath, in movement, in the way everything narrows down to what’s immediate and tangible and real, the rest of the world pushed just far enough away that it doesn’t interfere.
I keep my composure.
That’s the part I don’t let slip.
Even as everything else shifts, even as the tension breaks and reforms into something else entirely, I stay aware, stay present, stay in control of what I show and what I don’t.
Because this isn’t just about him.
It’s about the decision I’ve already made.
It’s about what comes after.
His hand catches at the back of my neck, pulling me closer again, his voice rougher now, quieter, threaded with something that almost sounds like a question.
“Tell me what this is.”
I breathe in slowly, the air warm, heavy.
“It’s what we have,” I say.
“For how long?”
I don’t answer it. I can’t. Because the answer would break this open in a way I won’t recover from.
Instead, I press closer, let the moment carry instead of defining it, and eventually he stops asking.
Eventually, he just… stays.
And I let him.
I let it exist exactly as it is, without naming it, without promising anything beyond what’s already happening, because that’s the only way I can do this without undoing everything else.
When it’s over, I don’t linger.
That’s the hardest part.
Not leaving.
Not the plan.
This.
The space after.
I pull back slowly, even as something in me resists it, and I don’t give that resistance any room to grow.
He watches me, his expression unreadable in a way that tells me he’s already questioning, already tracking the shift.
“You’re leaving,” he says.
Not a question.
A statement.
I adjust my clothing, my posture resetting automatically, composure sliding back into place like it never left.
“I have things to handle,” I reply.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I know.”
He steps forward slightly.
“Then say it,” he says.
I meet his gaze.
And for a second?—
I almost do.
Instead, I shake my head once.
“Not tonight.”
His jaw tightens.
“You don’t get to choose that.”
“I just did.”
Silence stretches between us, thick and unresolved.
“Stacy—”
“Don’t,” I say quietly.
He stops.
Not because he wants to.
Because something in my voice makes him.
I step back.
One step.
Then another.
Each one measured.
Each one final.
“I’ll see you soon,” I say.
That one is a lie.
And I don’t let it show.
I turn before he can answer, before he can stop me, before I give myself time to hesitate, and the door opens as I reach it, the corridor beyond colder, sharper, real in a way the room behind me isn’t anymore.
I don’t look back.
I don’t slow.
Because if I do?—
I won’t leave.
Vihl is waiting where we agreed, near the lower access corridor, his posture tense, his gaze snapping to me the moment I step into view.
“You took longer than I expected,” he says.
“I had something to finish,” I reply.
His eyes narrow slightly, but he doesn’t push.
“Everything’s ready,” he says instead. “We move now or we don’t move at all.”
“Then we move.”
We don’t speak again as we reach the shuttle bay, the air colder here, sharper with fuel and metal and the faint hum of systems running at minimal capacity to avoid detection.
The shuttle sits where it should, small compared to the larger vessels, but functional, efficient.
Final.
I step inside without hesitation.
The door seals behind us.
The engines hum to life.
And just like that?—
I’m no longer on his ship.
I sit down, strapping in with practiced efficiency, my hands steady even as everything else shifts around me.
“You’re sure about this?” Vihl asks quietly.
“Yes.”
“You don’t get to undo it.”
“I know.”
He studies me for a moment, then nods once.
“Alright,” he says.
The shuttle lifts.
The ship falls away behind us.
And I don’t look at it.
Not even once.
Instead, I reach into the lining of my sleeve, fingers finding the small, concealed device embedded there, the one I’ve carried without activating until now.
I hold it for a second.
Then press it.
A soft vibration hums against my skin as it comes online, the signal initiating, broadcasting outward into channels I shouldn’t have access to, into places that will hear it whether they want to or not.
“Let’s see who’s listening,” I murmur.