You heard every time Robert Capa screamed in his sleep. It was always the same nightmare you had: your body falling helplessly toward the surface of the sun, arms flailing, voice shredded raw as you called for help that never came. And when you woke, it wasn’t relief that met you—only the crushing reminder that you were drifting closer and closer to the very thing that haunted your minds.

With your eleven years of training and experience, you could tell by the way Robert looked at people that he wasn’t someone who opened up easily. He certainly wouldn’t welcome you walking into his quarters just to comfort him. But God, how you wanted to.

It was lonely on a spaceship. Lonely in a way that gnawed at your ribs. You fell asleep in a cold metal room and woke a few hours later to the exact same darkness, the same hum of machinery, the same sense of suspended time. Maybe things would feel different if you opened your eyes and found Capa’s deep blue ones staring back.

You weren’t delusional. You weren’t fantasizing. You just had a sinking feeling that none of the crew would ever make it home.

So you were shooting your shot — because what was there to lose? Your version of “shooting your shot” was… offering Capa sleeping pills.

Ridiculous.

But you knew he wouldn’t appreciate you coming into his room just to soothe him. He lived under the illusion that he didn’t need comfort at all. So you needed an excuse. And as the ship’s doctor, you had the authority to help anyone who was suffering.

You knocked quietly, pill case in hand.

Inside, Capa stirred. Sheets tangled around him like a coiled rope as he struggled out of them with a faint frown. He didn’t bother with his hair or clothes—just moved straight toward the door, tired and disoriented, still carrying the weight of the nightmare on his skin.

He opened it. His blue eyes found yours instantly.

The dim nightlight painted his collarbones in cool blue, outlining the slope of his shoulders and the sheen of sweat along his sternum. He noticed the pill container first—of course he did. His gaze flickered from it back up to your face, quiet, waiting.

He glanced over his shoulder, long black hair brushing the nape of his neck, then looked back at you. The silence stretched. You could feel the faint, involuntary stirring in him with every passing second.

“It’s half past twelve,” he said softly. “You shouldn’t be awake.”

It wasn’t a reprimand. The slight softening of his brows, the way his irises shifted with something unspoken— that told you everything.

He felt protective of you.

Not that Robert would ever admit that to himself. He didn’t know why he felt that way. He only knew he probably shouldn’t.