Page 105 of Red Scale Daddy
Roma studies me, perhaps hearing the shift under the words. “Dorsal exterior camera. Watch for another cluster. If they gather at the fracture line again, tell me before they settle.”
“Done.”
“And Dux?”
“Yes?”
She hesitates, then lifts her chin slightly. “Do not bleed on the console.”
I grin. “There she is.”
“Useful liability remains conditional.”
“I’ll try to stay valuable.”
“Try hard.”
I take the secondary station and bring up the dorsal feed. Outside, the asteroid lies in cold, hostile dark, crawling with movement beyond the reach of our light. Inside, Roma bends over the controls, stubborn and brilliant and very much alive.
For the first time in years, staying alive feels less like habit and more like a decision.
I do not know what to do with that yet.
So I watch the fracture line, keep my weapon close, and decide that anything trying to reach her will have to come through me first.
CHAPTER 15
ROMA
The Lamplight finally stops sounding like it’s about to come apart in my hands.
Not safe, not stable, but the violence fades into something I can manage instead of fight. The hull no longer screams under constant assault. The systems still complain in low, persistent tones, like a patient that refuses to die but isn’t interested in making recovery easy. The air holds heat now—trapped between metal and effort—layered with the sharp tang of sealant, the faint bitterness of scorched wiring, and something warmer, human, threaded through it.
The signal is still there. Faint. Stubborn. Alive.
Every time it flickers, something inside me cringes and lifts at the same time, like breath caught halfway between relief and fear. I focus on the numbers instead, on the slow climb of stability, on anything that doesn’t feel like hope trying to destabilize me from the inside out.
Behind me, Dux moves.
I don’t turn right away, but I feel it—the shift in air, the subtle change in weight distribution as he stands, the quiet sound of armor brushing against itself. He doesn’t move like a man tryingto hide. He moves like someone who assumes space will adjust for him.
It usually does.
“Dorsal’s holding,” he says, voice rougher than before, worn down by strain and something else I don’t immediately name. “They’re circling wider now.”
“We forced a behavioral adjustment,” I reply, still facing forward. “They’ll test again.”
“They always do.”
I nod once, then finally turn.
He’s closer than he should be.
I don’t remember him crossing the distance.
That realization lands somewhere low in my awareness, quiet but significant. My pulse shifts in response, not sharp enough to alarm, but no longer aligned with the rhythm of the ship.
“You should sit,” I say, defaulting to something practical. “You’re still injured.”
