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Except… it wasn’t.

She blinked, taking in the main living area. The layout matched her own quarters exactly—the same open space with its functional kitchenette, and modest furniture. Two doors led to what she knew would be bedrooms, another to a bathroom. Even the walls were the same warm beige stone. The only difference was the complete absence of anything personal. No datapad left carelessly on the low table, no half-drunk cup of tea forgotten on the counter. Nothing to suggest anyone actually lived here.

He moved past her into the room, and when she glanced up, she found him watching her with an odd expression.

“What?” Her hand went to her face automatically. “Do I have something…”

A soft chuckle escaped him, the sound warming her from the inside out. “No. I’m just curious what you’re thinking.”

“I…” She hesitated, caught between honesty and diplomacy. Screw it. “I thought since you’re on the command team, you’d have better quarters.”

The words hung in the air for a heartbeat. Then his lips curved slightly. “Izaean practicality,” he said, gesturing at the bare room. “Nothing more than what we need.”

She watched him cross to the kitchenette, his movements economical and precise. Everything about him was precise, controlled. Except… she had seen moments when that control slipped. When he’d kissed her in the emergency shelter. When he’d reached for her in the cave before they fell…

She ran her fingers along the back of the couch—exactly like hers—and tried to imagine him living here. Sleeping here. Did he use both bedrooms? Did he sleep with his door open or closed? The questions bubbled up unbidden, and she pushed them away. Not relevant. Not her business.

But standing here, in his space that wasn’t really his, she felt off balance. She could feel him watching her, probably wondering why she was staring at his furniture like it held the secrets of the universe.

When she turned to face him again, the words died in her throat. He was leaning against the doorframe of one of the bedrooms, watching her with an intensity that made her breath catch. The light caught his eyes, turning them to embers, and for a moment she forgot what she’d been about to say.

“We lost everything in the attack on the southern fortress,” he said, breaking the charged silence. “Though I didn’t have much to begin with.”

Her chest tightened. She remembered reading about the attack—a devastating assault that had caught the Izaean off guard. The loss of life had been staggering. She studied his face, searching for signs of pain or grief, but his expression remained carefully neutral.

“The Izaean don’t really have a use for luxury,” he continued as he pushed away from the doorframe. “We’re trained for efficiency. Anything unnecessary just… gets in the way.”

There was something in the way he said it, like he was remembering something. She tilted her head, a small smile playing at her lips.

“Or even many personal possessions?” she asked, keeping her voice light, teasing.

Something flickered across his face—too quick to read—before his expression smoothed out again. He straightened, shoulders tensing slightly. “Not much room for those, either.”

The words felt heavy, and she watched as his gaze drifted to the far wall. The teasing died on her lips as, noticed how his fingers twitched at his side before curling into a loose fist.

“I didn’t mean—” she started, but he shook his head.

“It’s fine.” His voice was quieter now. “When you come to Parac’Norr, you learn to live with less. Everything here is…” He gestured vaguely at the sparse room. “Functional. Practical.” A slight pause. “Simple.”

She thought of her own quarters, of the small treasures she’d brought with her—the worn copy of her father’s favorite book, her mother’s old scarf, the collection of strange rocks she’d gathered since arriving. Little pieces of herself, scattered through her space.

“But surely there must be something,” she said softly. “Something small you’ve kept?”

His eyes met hers, and for a moment she saw something vulnerable there, something raw. Then he looked away, his gaze settling on the empty kitchen counter.

“I had a few things. Drawings mostly. Things Kal and Tor made when they were little.” His voice softened at their names. “Lost them in the evacuation.”

She felt the weight behind those words. Not just possessions lost, but memories. He moved restlessly across the room, his shoulders tense at the mention of the boys.

“After the attack… We didn’t have time to grab anything. Funny how that works. You spend years telling yourself things don’t matter and then realize too late the ones that did.”

The silence stretched between them, growing heavier with each passing second. She shifted her weight, hyperaware of every small movement, every breath. The mention of Kal and Tor’s childhood drawings had changed something in the air, like a door had cracked open but neither of them knew whether to step through.

She stole a glance at his profile. The amber light caught the sharp angle of his jaw, the tension in his shoulders. She ached to reach out, to touch, to comfort—but she held back, instinctively knowing this moment required stillness.

The quiet felt almost physical now, pressing against her skin. She could hear her own heartbeat, feel the warmth radiating from him even across the space between them. This close, she caught his scent—dirt, the tang of male sweat that she curiously didn’t mind, and something uniquely his that made her pulse quicken.

When he finally spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper. “The three of us arrived here together, years ago.”

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