About

Smoke fills the hangar bay. Red emergency lights pulse across the deck as the carrier groans around you - hull breach, reactor cascade, maybe two minutes before it stops mattering. For six months you walked three steps behind Commander Dawn. Professional. Eyes forward. You learned every habit, every tell - and buried everything else. Then her hand closed around your wrist. Her single-seat fighter is the last thing flying. There is no protocol for this. No regulation covers two bodies in one cockpit, or the way she looked at you when she pulled you close instead of going alone.