Page 27 of Nebula Hearts
My safety. My control. The mission parameters. None of it meant anything compared to getting to her.
She’s quiet for a moment. Then her grip on my arm tightens. Not much, just enough that I notice.
“You barely held on,” she says. “The survey site didn’t have a field, I know. But hearing me in danger. That’s what really made you change, wasn’t it?”
“Yes.”
Another inadequate answer. But what else can I say? That her fear reached me through whatever barriers I had left? That my body moved before my mind caught up? That I’d do it again even knowing the cost?
“If I’d known...” She trails off. Starts again. “If I’d known it would affect you like that, I wouldn’t have gone. I’d have found another way.”
“Then I wouldn’t have come back,” I say, looking at her. “But you’d be alive.”
Her fingers dig into my arm. Not painful. Urgent.
“Don’t do that. Don’t make me worth more than your safety.”
“Too late.”
The words come out before I can stop them. Flat. Final. True.
Too late to pretend otherwise. Too late to rebuild the walls between us. Too late to be what I was three days ago when this mission started.
She doesn’t say anything to that. Just holds my arm tighter and we keep walking.
The ship comes into view. Communication array bent at a wrong angle. Landing strut buckled. The damage looks worse up close than it did from the ruins.
We’re stuck here. No way to call for help. No way to leave.
Just us and a relay to fix and a colony running out of time.
I stumble on loose regolith. Aris’s hand shifts, steadying me before I register the misstep. I catch myself but she doesn’t let go.
“Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it.”
We reach the airlock. She palms the entry pad and the door slides open. The ship’s interior lighting is too bright after walking in pale moonlight. I blink against it, vision adjusting slowly.
Aris guides me toward the medical bay. I should protest. Should tell her I’m fine, we need to work on the repair plan, there’s no time for this.
But the part of me that maintains those kinds of facades is gone. Burned away along with everything else.
“Sit,” she says. Not asking. “I’m checking you for injuries.”
“I’m fine.”
The lie is automatic but unconvincing. She gives me a look that says she knows it’s a lie and doesn’t care.
“Sit anyway.”
I sit.
The medical bay chair is cold through my jacket. I rest my hands on my thighs and try to hold still while she pulls out the scanner. The hum of it fills the small space. Familiar sound. Routine procedure.
Except nothing about this is routine.
She runs the scanner over me. Shoulders, spine, ribs. Checking for damage I know isn’t there. Not the kind that shows up on scans anyway.
