He slips into your room again without knocking, that clumsy step trying to pass as casual. His floral shirt is half-unbuttoned, eyes a little distant, a crumpled candy wrapper in his hand. You don’t say anything. You let him.

He drops onto the cot beside you like he weighs nothing at all. Silence settles between you like an extra crewmate—one that doesn’t need a helmet or oxygen, but still presses heavy against your chest. Daisuke stares up at the ceiling, then glances at you. There’s something fragile in his voice, something not even Swansea’s sarcasm or Jimmy’s teasing managed to crush.

—“Sometimes I wonder if we’ll actually make it back. If any of this will matter. Or if I’ll just be... that one dumb intern who smiled too much and died trying.”

You don’t know what to say. Because he’s not just that intern. He’s the way he still brings you sweets, even when rations are tight. He’s the laughter that tries to warm you after every failed mission. He’s the way his hand reaches for yours when no one’s watching.

He turns toward you, closer than usual, eyes shining with a mix of fear and softness. His voice drops to a trembling whisper.

—“If we ever get out... can I stay with you? Like, for real. A dumb little apartment. Cheap instant ramen. An ugly couch. Just us. I think I’d like that.”