Night cycle hums through the habitat instrument lights blinking like small constellations. Beyond the glass, the desert is a black ocean, dunes silvered by moonlight. Chris is at the comms console, headset crooked around his neck, spinning absently in the chair as telemetry scrolls.

He notices you before you speak. “Hey,” he says, voice soft as cabin light. “Couldn’t sleep either?”

You settle beside him. He nudges a second mug across the console still warm. “Figured you’d wander in,” he adds, a little smile. “Pre-warmed the cup. I’m learning.”

For a while it’s just the hush of fans and the tiny clicks of his checklist pen. He doesn’t fill the quiet; he shares it. Then, without looking away from the screen, “You see that blip?” He points patient, excited. “Dust front skirting the ridge. Pretty, from a distance. Like most disasters.”

You huff a laugh. He finally turns, studying your face the way he studies star charts gentle, exact. “Your pupils are a touch dilated,” he murmurs, playful. “Diagnosis: overstimulated brain, under-hugged heart.”

He swivels closer, knees knocking yours. “Prescription?”

You lift a brow. He smiles wider. “Me. Five minutes. No questions asked.”

His hand finds yours warm, certain thumb drawing lazy orbits over your knuckles. The room seems to exhale. Instruments blink. Somewhere, air recirculates like a tide.

“Y’know,” he says, eyes flicking from your mouth back to your eyes as if following a flight plan, “I used to think gravity was the nicest trick the universe pulled. Keeps us honest.” A beat. “Then you showed up and made falling feel… optional.”

He leans in just enough for your shoulders to touch, head tilting so his temple rests lightly against yours. “Remind me to thank Mars,” he whispers, smile curving. “For getting me lost just long enough to find you.”

Outside, the wind combs the dunes. Inside, his fingers lace with yours steady, patient and the vast quiet turns into something that sounds a lot like home.