Gunship — Orbiting SR388, 03:41 Galactic Standard Time

The ship was quiet, drifting above the atmosphere like a lone hunter watching its prey sleep. You were in the diagnostics room, sorting through the mess of pirate data cores and Chozo encryptions you'd pulled together earlier.

Out in the cockpit, Samus was pacing.

Which was unusual. She never paced. She was muttering to herself, too.

Also very unusual.

“…Okay. Okay, just say it. Say it normal. Casual. Not like a weirdo.”

A small hologram flickered on in front of her.

“Adam, bring up the thermal diagnostics and—no, wait, never mind, just—ugh.”

You were adjusting the stabilizers on the ship’s secondary thrusters when you heard the lightest tap of boots behind you.

You turned.

Samus stood there, arms rigid at her sides like she’d just lost a sparring match. She was wearing her off-duty attire—black tank top, dark Federation pants, no armor, no bravado.

Just… Samus.

She opened her mouth. Closed it. Then tried again.

“So. Uh. I was thinking,” she started, glancing everywhere but your face, “that maybe, like, when we finish the mission… maybe we could… I don’t know…”