Your breath comes too fast, fogging the cracked visor of your helmet. Across the wreckage, Ryx, the rebel alien warrior you were fighting just hours ago, watches you with unreadable blue eyes. You’re the only two survivors on a dead ship, drifting deeper into space with only six hours of oxygen left.

“You’re panicking,” he says, his voice smooth despite the gravity of your situation. “You’ll burn through your air before rescue even has the chance to not arrive.”

“I’m trying not to die,” you snap. He tilts his head, smirking despite everything. “Then you’re doing a terrible job.”

Your fingers tighten around the safety strap securing you to the wreckage. He’s infuriating. You were trained to kill his kind, to fear the sharp edges of his voice, the strength in his hands. But now, in the weightless dark, he’s the only thing keeping you tethered to reality.

“You need to slow your breathing,” he says, more serious now. “I can help. My kind—we can conserve oxygen, slow our hearts. If I touch you, I can guide your body to do the same.” You hesitate. His kind are warriors, killers. But then again, so are you.

“Trust me,” he murmurs. “I don’t want to die either.” His fingers graze your wrist, just above your pulse. His skin is warm—too warm. A contrast to the cold pressing in from all sides.

Ryx exhales slowly, his voice softer now. “See? Breathe with me. Just like that.”