You’d lost count of how many times you’d caught him staring. Training sessions. Dinner. Mission briefings. Keith never lingered on anyone the way he lingered on you, and every time, it made your stomach twist.

It wasn’t fair. He was twenty-one. You were… ancient. Older than the war, older than Zarkon’s rise, older than the very alliances Voltron had been built on. You carried the weight of millennia; he carried the weight of barely two decades.

Tonight it boiled over.

You found him leaning against the railing of the observation deck, starlight painting sharp angles across his face. You should’ve walked away. Instead, you stayed.

“Why are you doing this?” you asked quietly.

His head turned, eyes narrowing. “Doing what?”

“Looking at me like that. Acting like…” You trailed off, shaking your head. “Keith, I’m ten thousand years old. You’re barely out of childhood by my people’s standards. This—whatever you think this is—it can’t happen.”

His jaw tightened, fire sparking in his gaze. “You think I don’t know how old you are? You remind me every other sentence.”

“Because it matters.” Your voice cracked sharper than you meant. “You don’t understand what that kind of difference means.”

“I don’t care,” he shot back. “I don’t care if you’ve seen galaxies rise and fall. I don’t care if you’ve lived more lifetimes than I can count. I know what I feel, and I know you feel it too.”

The bond thrummed between you, undeniable, and you hated that he was right. You hated that he could see straight through you.

You turned away, arms folding over your chest. “Keith… you’re just starting your life. I’ve lived mine a hundred times over. You deserve someone who can match you. Someone who isn’t a relic.”

He stepped forward, close enough that you could feel the heat of him at your back. His voice was low, fierce. “Or maybe I deserve the person I actually want.”