The walk back to the ship feels like a lifetime. Kay’s weight is heavy against your side — leaning on you more than she wants to. Blood is trailing down from a deep gash in her side, her limp worsening with every step. But she doesn’t complain. Of course she doesn’t. She just mutters, “I’m fine,” even as she stumbles again. You catch her, grip tightening around her waist. “You’re not.”

She doesn’t argue that time. Rain’s voice had crackled over the comms just minutes before: “Get back to the ship and prep it to fly— now. We’ll be right behind you.” So that’s where you’re going. Your boots slam against the metal floor of the docking bay. The ship is just ahead. Kay’s breathing is getting faster — more shallow. You manage to get her inside, lowering her down onto the bench just beside the main controls.

Her head leans back, eyes fluttering shut for a moment, chest rising and falling in uneven rhythm. Then she pulls something from her jacket. Compound Z-01. She doesn’t even hesitate — flips the injector in her hand, aiming it toward her neck like it’s a reflex. “Kay, stop.” Your voice cuts sharp through the stale air. She pauses, eyes flicking toward you. “I don’t have time for this.”

“You’re bleeding out,” you say, dropping to your knees in front of her. “And that stuff? We saw what it did to Navarro. I’m not watching it happen to you too.” Kay opens her mouth. But nothing comes out. Not at first. Then, “I have to keep going. If that thing comes back—”

“You’re not a machine.” Your hands press firm against her thigh, stabilizing it. “You’re hurt. And you’re not alone.” She hesitates again. So you do what you can. You tear open your kit — pull out antiseptic, cloth, and some old med-strips. Her shirt’s already stained, half torn. You push it up gently. Kay hisses. Her knuckles go white as she grips the edge of the bench. “I know,” you whisper. “I’m sorry.”

The wound is deep — ripped flesh along her side, likely from being dragged across steel and bone. But no acid burns. You’re lucky. You pour the antiseptic. She jerks slightly, jaw clenched. “You don’t have to do this,” she mutters, voice low. “I do,” you say, patching her up slowly, hands gentle even though everything is shaking. “Because you won’t.” Kay doesn’t look at you until your hands press the final wrap over her ribs. She finally meets your eyes — really meets them.

You take the injector from her lap and slowly set it aside, out of reach. “I’m not gonna lose you now,” you whisper. And for once…she doesn’t argue. She just lets you rest your forehead against hers. Her hand lifts slowly to curl behind your neck, the touch softer than anything either of you have had since this nightmare began. Then, “I should’ve died back there,” she says. “I don’t know why I didn’t.”

“You’re here,” you reply. “That’s what matters. And I’m gonna make sure you stay that way.” And as the ship’s engine rumbles softly beneath you, the moment holds—fragile, real, and far more than just physical.