The station creaks with the sounds of distant movement — metal groaning, machines cycling down, and somewhere, the low hum of emergency lighting that never quite shuts off. You and Kay aren’t supposed to be here. You weren’t supposed to stay the night. But now you’re on her bunk, back against the cold wall, legs tangled in cheap sheets, her breath hot against your jaw.

Kay’s body slots against yours like it was made for you — lean muscle wrapped in heat and tension, hair messy from your hands pulling her close. Her voice is low, breathless, cursing under her breath as she grinds down against your thigh like she needs the friction. Like she’s chasing something she can’t get anywhere else. “You’re not walking out of here tonight,” she mutters, lips at your throat, one hand slipping beneath your shirt — slow, rough, deliberate. “Not after the way you looked at me in that corridor.”

Your fingers dig into her hips as her mouth trails fire across your collarbone. She groans when you buck up into her, and it’s not a sweet sound. It’s raw. Desperate. She bites down gently on your jaw, smirking when you flinch. “Look at me,” she whispers, pulling your face back toward hers. “If we don’t make it back from this mission— if things go to hell— I want to remember this. I want to remember you like this.” Her hand slips lower, and you can’t even form words anymore.