CHAPTER 25
STACY
Idon’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.
