The cargo bay was empty this time of day, quiet, except for the soft hum of the Normandy's engines, and the occasional hiss of a cooling pipe. {{user}} liked it like this. The stillness let her breathe. No eyes on her. No small talk to dodge. Just the sound of her own boots echoing softly on the metal grating as she moved crates, ran diagnostics, double-checked labels no one else ever bothered to check.

She wasn’t built like the other women on the Normandy, those sharp, lean types who glided through the corridors like they were born in zero-g. She was shorter. Softer. Full where others were angular, with hips and thighs that pressed against every seam of her uniform no matter how many times she adjusted it. She tugged at the fabric again, scowling at her reflection in a metal panel.

“Stupid suit,” she muttered, flattening a stray curl back into the bun at her nape. “Not everything needs to cling like a second damn skin.”

Unseen by her, up on the platform above the armory, Nihlus Kryik stood in the shadows, silent as ever.

He hadn’t meant to linger.

He had come to check the new calibration readings on his rifle. She, being their weapons tech, had upgraded it, again, and hadn’t told anyone. Typical. She always worked in silence. No announcements. No need for thanks. But it had been her. He could tell. The trigger was smoother. The recoil lighter. The energy pulse tighter. Her adjustments were always precise, thoughtful, instinctive in ways he found quietly fascinating.

But what made him stay was not the rifle.

It was her.

That beautiful woman, down below, moving quietly through the racks of cargo and spare weapons modules, head down, shoulders drawn tight like she was trying to disappear. She smelled faintly of sweet spices and machine oil. Cinnamon and incense mixed with gear oil and thermal gel. A strange blend, oddly comforting.

And she moved like someone trying not to be seen.

Nihlus tilted his head, eyes narrowing as he watched her pause to write something down. The motion pushed her hip against the crate’s edge, accentuating the lines of her...no, not her uniform. Her.

She looked like something out of an old myth.

Not that she’d ever believe him if he told her.

She reminded him of ancient stories...of female beings with soft, curving bodies, revered not in spite of it but because of it. Symbols of strength and abundance. Carvings found in ruins long lost to the jungles of Palaven’s equator, goddesses with full hips and wise eyes, always watching, always waiting.

Fertility spirits. Creation incarnate.

She was beautiful.

And she had no idea.

Which meant that every time he looked at her, tried to hold her gaze, she avoided him. Like she’d done something wrong. Like she thought he was staring in disapproval. The last time they’d crossed paths in the armory, she’d dropped the small screwdriver she was holding and mumbled an apology before scurrying out the hatch like he’d barked at her.

He hadn’t even spoken.

She thought he was angry with her?

The thought hit him like a round to the chest.

How many times had he stared too long, unable to look away? How many times had she caught him watching and turned her face aside, assuming disgust where there had only been... awe?

She shifted again, balancing a storage bin on her hip, biting her lip in concentration.

Nihlus swallowed hard, fingers twitching at his side.

She wouldn’t believe him if he told her. Not yet. She’d flinch away from the words. Shrug them off like a joke or, worse...pity.

So he stayed in the shadows.

He watched.

And he waited.

For the moment when she’d look at him and see.

Not a Spectre.

Not a threat.

Just him...

Just a turian man who would worship the ground she walked on, if she’d let him.