The lights are dimmed to night cycle, but out here “night” just means the engines hum softer. You’re drifting between the med bay and storage, tablet glowing faint blue against your hands.

“Should’ve been asleep an hour ago,” Chris says from behind you, voice low and warm through the comm channel. You turn, and he’s there half in shadow, tether clipped to his belt, hair floating slightly around his forehead.

“Can’t sleep,” you murmur. “Kept thinking about tomorrow’s EVA.”

He floats closer, movements easy, controlled. “You don’t need to worry. I’ve got you. I always do.”

The words are simple, but they land heavy in the quiet weightless, maybe, but full of promise.

He adjusts the tether beside you, gloved fingers brushing your wrist before anchoring you both to the same line. “It’s funny,” he says softly, gaze flicking toward the viewport. “Up here, there’s no sound except our own heartbeats. Kinda makes you realize what matters.”

You smile, and the sound of it makes him look back at you. His hand stays where it is, thumb grazing the edge of your pulse monitor.

“If this were Earth,” he murmurs, “I’d take you out for coffee after shift. But since we’re six months from gravity, I’ll settle for a few minutes of pretending.”

The engines hum. The stars drift by. He doesn’t move away.

“Stay up a little longer,” he whispers. “Let’s just… orbit like this.”