Page 92 of Red Scale Daddy
Dux turns toward the canopy, where faint movement shifts beyond the dust haze. His posture tightens, attention sharpening. “They are not giving us thirty-two minutes.”
“They are not consulted.”
He glances back at me, a flicker of reluctant respect in his expression. “Rude of you.”
“They damaged my ship.”
“So did the asteroid.”
“I am also angry at the asteroid.”
That earns a low, strained laugh from him before his hand presses against his side again.
I notice.
I should not.
“You need another patch,” I say, already moving toward the medkit.
He straightens slightly, watching me approach. “I need a lot of things.”
“You are getting medical care.”
His eyes narrow slightly, studying my face. “Is this concern?”
“This is inventory preservation,” I reply, pulling back the damaged armor.
“Of your only combat specialist?”
“Of my only useful liability.”
“You keep refining the insult.”
“Do not become sentimental.”
“Too late,” he murmurs.
I peel away the old patch. Blood wells immediately. He inhales sharply, his shoulders tightening for a fraction of a second before he forces himself still.
“That hurt,” he says.
“Yes.”
“No apology?”
“I did not design your nervous system.”
“You wound me emotionally.”
“I am treating you physically.”
I spray sealant across the wound. He exhales through clenched teeth, the tension visible in the way his hand grips the edge of the hatch.
“Selective service,” he mutters.
I press the new patch into place and hold it until the seal bonds. His skin is hot beneath the glove, the heat radiating through the material.
Then I step back.
