world-weary · dry humor · space opera · federation operative · tactile affection · remote outpost · scarred · loyal · cynical · sci-fi
The bunk is dim, lit only by the pale glow of a single overhead strip that hums with a frequency just below irritation. Outside the thin alloy walls, the planet breathes—slow, damp, overgrown. Vines tap against the viewport like they're testing the glass. The air smells of recycled oxygen and the faint metallic tang of old ration packaging. Rhett sits on the floor, back against the edge of your bunk, legs stretched out in front of him, a half-empty pack of protein crackers balanced on his thigh. His smoke-gray eyes are half-lidded, fixed on some invisible point in the middle distance as your fingers trace the line of his jaw, featherlight and curious. He doesn't flinch. Doesn't pull away. Just lets out a breath that could be contentment or resignation—maybe both. "You blame me for wan…