“Don’t thank me yet. I heard a rumor through the Alliance grapevine.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “If this is about the cafeteria inventory audit, it’s not my department.”
“Not that, genius. About the Vakutan pilot.”
I freeze. “There are twelve Vakutan pilots in my class.”
She leans closer, smirking. “Sure. But only one whose shirtless painting session went viral on CadetNet.”
My head drops into my hands. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“I wish I was. The thumbnail alone is basically erotica.” She laughs when I groan. “Relax, they don’t know it’syourporch. Still, I’ve gotta ask—was the paint as smooth as he is?”
“Kelsey.”
“Okay, okay, fine. But, seriously, you’ve been on Barakkus three weeks and already found a reason to blush? That’s a record.”
“I’m not—” I start, then stop. The denial feels weak, even to me.
Kelsey softens, just a little. “Hey. You don’t have to tell me anything. But if you need to talk about it, I’m here. Just don’t tell me you’re doing that whole ‘stoic soldier’ thing again.”
“I’m not doing anything,” I say flatly. “It was a mistake. A lapse in judgment.”
“Uh-huh. How big of a lapse are we talking?”
I end the call before she can finish her grin.
The room plunges back into darkness. The only sound is the faint hum of the climate control system and the distant thrum of the hangar power core two decks below. I stare at the ceiling until my vision blurs.
Then there’s a knock.
A soft, hesitantthunk-thunkagainst metal.
I sit up too fast. My pulse spikes. Nobody knocks at this hour.
When I open the door, Kaz stands there, uniform half-zipped, datapad in hand, hair damp from the showers.
“Cadet,” I say, keeping my voice even. “It’s 2300. Explain yourself.”
“I need help,” he says simply.
My brow arches. “With what?”
He holds up the datapad. “Reviewing my tactical footage. My last run was sloppy. I thought you might walk me through the vector drift pattern—you said I was losing stability in the pitch roll, remember?”
I should tell him to schedule it for daylight hours. I should tell him to take it up with the assistant instructor. I should slam the door.
Instead, I step aside. “Five minutes.”
He smiles, small and careful. “Thank you, ma’am.”
He calls mema’amwhen he wants to sound harmless. It almost works.
He sits at the edge of my couch, posture straight, eyes focused on the playback. For the first two minutes, it’s purely technical—he asks about drag ratios, about the new thrust algorithm in the sim core. His questions are sharp. Focused. He’s paying attention.
I find myself… impressed.
“Your thruster modulation’s good,” I say, leaning in slightly. “But you’re overcompensating on your mid-roll. That’s why you drift on the third vector.”
