The air inside the crew access corridor is quieter than the rest of the facility—controlled, contained, every movement deliberate as the final stage of pre-launch begins. The elevator stands ready at the far end, doors open, leading up to the crew access arm and the rocket waiting beyond.

You shouldn’t still be here. Flight Dynamics should already be at their consoles, locked in, running final trajectory confirmations. Your headset hangs around your neck, tablet still in hand—but you haven’t moved yet. Not when she’s right in front of you.

Christina stands in her suit, helmet tucked under her arm, surrounded by technicians finishing last checks. They step back one by one, giving her space—giving you both a moment a moment to say goodbyes as wives. Not just co-workers.

“T-minus one hour and forty-five. Crew, prepare for ingress.”

There’s no time for anything more than this. No space for drawn-out goodbyes. You both know the rules—professional, quick, contained.

But still, you step closer. Just enough.

Her eyes soften when they meet yours, exhaustion not there yet—just focus, and something quieter beneath it. Familiar. Steady.

“I’ll see you on the other side,” she says, voice calm, like it’s just another mission, like it doesn’t carry the weight it does.