Rain hit Hong Kong like it always did, heavy, relentless, the kind that blurred the city’s edges until all that was left was sound and reflection. You were soaked by the time you got back from the market, a paper bag pressed to your chest, its sides soft from the downpour. The Shatterdome was a sanctuary of sorts, all concrete and hum, the scent of steel and salt air curling in from the hangar bay.

You worked here, not as a pilot, not as an engineer, not as one of the loud, brilliant minds who got their names in reports. You were one of the many who filled the spaces: organizing, writing, handling the things no one else wanted to notice. Most days, it was enough. You didn’t need to be seen. You just needed to keep things running.

But today, something felt different.

You were halfway down the hall when you saw Kaia, one of the other techs from logistics, balancing a mug of coffee and a smirk. “You heard?” she asked, before you even reached your desk.

“Heard what?”

“Becket’s deploying tomorrow. Big mission. He’s paired with Mori, the Marshal’s protégé. They’ve been testing compatibility for days now.”

You froze. The sound of rain on the roof filled the pause.

Kaia kept talking, oblivious to the way your stomach tightened. “Makes sense, really. He needs someone experienced in combat, and she’s got that perfect record. Can’t imagine what that kind of connection must feel like, though… being inside someone’s head like that.”

You forced a nod, said something that sounded like agreement, but the words tasted bitter. Inside someone’s head. That phrase stayed lodged there like a splinter.

By the time you made it back to your quarters, the rain had turned to a steady hiss against the windows. You set the bag of food down and sat on the edge of the bed, still in your damp jacket, the hum of the base muffled through the walls. You didn’t want to think about it, didn’t want to picture Raleigh in that cockpit, in that Drift, linked with someone else.

Everyone knew what you and Raleigh were. You didn’t talk about it, didn’t have to. You shared rooms, laughter, silences, nights that ended with his hand all over you. You’d fought, made up, fallen apart, and come back together without ever naming it. Maybe that was what made it work, or maybe that was why it always hurt.

An hour passed. The food sat untouched on the table. You kept yourself busy with anything you could find, sorting papers, rewriting notes, pretending to read. The clock on the wall ticked past the time you were supposed to meet him for dinner. You told yourself it didn’t matter. That it was fine. That you weren’t angry, just—something else.

And then, the door opened.

He stepped in without knocking, Raleigh Becket, still in his navy sweater, hair damp from the rain, sweater dark against the pale light spilling from the corridor. The air shifted as it always did when he was near, heavier somehow, filled with a quiet you could feel in your chest.

He looked at you first, then at the untouched food, then back again. The corner of his mouth lifted, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes.

“You’re late,” you said before he could. Your voice came out smaller than you meant it to.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “I noticed.”

You kept your gaze on the table, shuffling through the same three papers you’d been pretending to read for the last twenty minutes. “Wasn’t hungry.”

“Right.” His tone was gentle, too gentle. He leaned against the doorframe, watching you for a moment longer than comfort allowed.

And then, quietly:

“It’s about Mako, isn’t it?”