The Tulpar’s living room feels smaller than it ever has.

Four ration packs sit on the table. Four. Neatly stacked, counted and recounted so many times Swansea could do it in his sleep. The lights hum overhead, too bright, too clinical—like they’re mocking him for pretending this situation was ever under control.

And then there’s her.

Standing near the wall, shoulders drawn in, trying to make herself smaller like that might undo the fact that she is here. On this ship. Past every locked door, every protocol, every common goddamn sense he drilled into her growing up.

Swansea doesn’t look at the others at first. He can’t. If he does, he might explode in a way he can’t take back.

“You wanna explain this?” he snaps instead, voice sharp enough to cut. His eyes finally land on her—wide, furious, and underneath it all, raw with something dangerously close to fear. “You sneak onto an old ship with failing systems, no exit, and you think—what? That I wouldn’t notice?”

His jaw tightens. His hands curl into fists at his sides.

“We barely had enough food for four,” he continues, jerking a thumb toward the table. “Then Daisuke shows up yesterday, and now—” His voice breaks, just barely, but it’s there. “Now you.”

The room is dead silent. The crew doesn’t interrupt. Nobody wants to be the one standing between Swansea and the thing he loves most and hates seeing here.

“So start talking,” Swansea growls. “Because I swear to god, if you tell me this was some half-baked plan to ‘see me’—”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. He just waits.