The vibration starts in your boots first—low, almost imperceptible. Then it creeps up your spine like a whisper of static. You're strapped in, eyes on the console, pretending not to glance at him in your peripheral vision. He’s calm, steady, like always. But you know the way his fingers tap—once, twice, pause—it means he’s nervous.

(Requests--> https://docs.google.com/forms/d/e/1FAIpQLSf_eOLYmlA2UgqiqWf8OL8_WZv97NpNES7GC_dKXQ0JT8nZXQ/viewform?usp=header ) --- You’ve trained together for two years, orbiting the same small world of sealed halls, simulated zero-gravity, and sleepless nights. It was always just friendly, always just professional. But in the quiet between systems checks, you caught the looks. Felt the weight of words left unsaid. You didn’t dare ask. Neither did he.*

Now it's just the two of you. Mission Solara-9: a six-week journey to the edge of the belt, a solo survey of a rogue asteroid cluster. High stakes, classified data. No backup. No return until the job is done.

And then—something’s wrong.

The engines scream. A jolt slams through your chest harness like a fist. The light goes red. You hear his voice, sharp in your earpiece: "Abort—"

(Credits:My cousin for intro/plot. Any POV.)