Soren woke into motion.
Not rest—motion.
His body felt as though it had never fully powered down, muscles stiff with the memory of waiting instead of sleeping. When he opened his eyes, the room swayed for a fraction of a second before settling, the sensation mild enough to dismiss but present enough to register.
He lay still, breathing carefully.
The Aurelius hummed around him, unchanged from the previous cycle. The rain had passed; the air was warmer now, thicker, holding the faint residual scent of damp metal and ozone filtered clean through the ship's systems.
Soren sat up slowly.
The heaviness behind his eyes had sharpened overnight, no longer just pressure but something closer to congestion, a dull fullness that made his thoughts arrive a half-second later than expected. His throat felt raw, not painful, just irritated, as though he'd spent too long breathing cold air.
He swallowed, tested his voice quietly.
It held.
Good enough.
He stood, bracing a hand on the desk as the floor compensated beneath him. The adjustment came quickly, smoothly—but Soren noticed the lag in himself rather than the ship. His balance corrected, but later than it should have.
He dressed with care, movements economical, conserving energy without fully acknowledging why. His uniform felt heavier today, the fabric dragging slightly at his shoulders. When he reached for the ledger, he paused, then took it with him anyway.
Routine mattered most when it felt unnecessary.
The corridors were already active.
Crew moved past him with unremarkable efficiency, their footsteps confident, their voices steady. Soren matched his pace to theirs, though it took more effort than usual. He found himself focusing on small things—the way the floor vibrated beneath each step, the temperature of the air against his skin—using sensation as an anchor against the faint fog pressing in at the edges of his awareness.
By the time he reached the stairs to the upper deck, his jaw ached from holding tension he hadn't realized he'd accumulated.
The climb felt longer than it should have.
Not steeper. Not harder.
Just… longer.
At the top, the upper deck opened into its familiar configuration, light spilling evenly across the consoles and rails. Elion was already in place, posture relaxed but attentive, eyes flicking between displays. Everett stood nearby, reviewing a set of printed reports, lips moving faintly as he read. Cassian leaned against a console, arms crossed, expression sharp as ever.
Atticus stood at the center of it all.
He turned as Soren entered.
Not immediately. Not pointedly.
Just… when Soren crossed an invisible threshold.
"Soren," Atticus said.
Soren inclined his head. "Captain."
"You're late."
It wasn't an accusation. It wasn't even sharp.
It was factual.
Soren checked the clock instinctively, then stopped himself. "By a minute."
"By two," Everett corrected without looking up.
Soren accepted that. "My mistake."
Atticus studied him—not his face, but his posture, the way he held himself slightly too still, as though movement required conscious permission.
"You went outside last cycle," Atticus said.
"Yes."
"In the rain."
"Yes."
"And you didn't sleep."
Soren hesitated, then nodded. "No."
Elion glanced between them. "You look like you need tea."
"I'll be fine," Soren said.
Atticus said nothing.
He simply continued to look at Soren, gaze steady, unblinking, as though waiting for something else to surface on its own.
It did.
A faint cough—dry, involuntary—escaped Soren before he could suppress it. He turned his head slightly, covering his mouth with his hand, annoyance flaring more at himself than at the symptom.
The moment stretched.
Everett closed his folder. "Deviation," he said quietly.
"Minor," Soren replied.
"Controlled," Cassian added, though his tone suggested skepticism.
Atticus lifted a hand, forestalling further commentary.
"Your condition does not compromise function," he said.
Soren nodded. "Correct."
"But it does alter performance," Atticus continued.
Soren did not argue.
Atticus shifted his stance slightly, angling his body toward the corridor leading away from the helm. "You were planning to continue observation."
"Yes."
"On your own."
"Yes."
Atticus considered this, then shook his head once—small, decisive.
"Walk with Rysen," he said.
The words landed softly.
Soren looked up. "Sir?"
"Rysen is due to inspect the mid-deck alignment," Atticus continued, tone measured, procedural. "Your path overlaps. Efficiency suggests you accompany him."
Cassian frowned. "That's unnecessary."
"It's optimal," Atticus replied without turning.
Everett tilted his head. "Rysen is thorough."
"Precisely."
Soren felt a flicker of something he couldn't immediately categorize—not relief, not resistance, just a subtle shift in internal balance.
"If you insist," he said.
Atticus met his eyes. For a brief moment, something unguarded passed between them—gone too quickly to name, but unmistakable in its weight.
"I do," Atticus said.
Then, just as smoothly, he turned back to the deck. "Resume standard operations."
The conversation ended there.
Elion returned to her instruments. Cassian muttered something under his breath and moved off. Everett gathered his papers and nodded once at Soren as he passed.
Soren remained where he was for a moment longer, the directive settling into place around him.
Walk with Rysen.
Not go rest.
Not stand down.
Not report to medical.
Structure. Coverage. Proximity.
Care, disguised as logistics.
Soren adjusted his grip on the ledger and turned toward the corridor.
The ship hummed steadily beneath his feet.
Whatever was wrong with him, it had not disrupted the system.
Yet.
_________________________
The corridor beyond the upper deck sloped gently downward, narrowing as it left the command spaces behind. Soren adjusted his stride automatically as he entered it, aligning himself with the rhythm of the ship and the expectation of movement.
Rysen was already there.
He stood near the junction where the upper corridor fed into the mid-deck routes, one boot braced against the wall as he reviewed a thin sheaf of notes held loosely in one hand. He looked up as Soren approached, expression neutral but attentive, eyes sharp in a way that suggested habit rather than suspicion.
"Soren," Rysen said. Not surprised. Just acknowledging.
"Rysen," Soren replied.
They stood facing each other for a moment, the space between them neither intimate nor distant—just functional. Rysen's gaze flicked briefly to the ledger under Soren's arm, then back to his face.
"Captain said to walk together," Rysen said.
"Yes."
Rysen nodded once, accepting the directive without commentary. He tucked the notes away and fell into step beside Soren as they started down the corridor.
They walked in silence at first.
Rysen's stride was long but unhurried, his pace steady enough that Soren could match it without effort. Or rather—without visible effort. It took a moment for Soren to realize that Rysen had adjusted, shortening his steps slightly, easing the cadence so it aligned with Soren's natural rhythm today rather than his usual one.
Soren noticed.
He did not comment.
The corridor opened into a wider passage, the hum of the ship deepening as they moved closer to the mid-deck systems. The air here was warmer, carrying the faint scent of oil and heated metal, the smell of machinery that worked continuously without complaint.
"Mid-deck alignment first," Rysen said. "Then storage, if you want to observe."
"That's fine," Soren replied.
"You sure?"
"Yes."
Rysen glanced at him again, more closely this time—not intrusive, but thorough. "You're breathing shallow."
Soren resisted the instinct to straighten. "Am I?"
"Marginally," Rysen said. "Not enough to matter."
The phrase echoed something Cassian had said earlier, but Rysen's tone lacked any edge. It was simply observation, offered without judgment.
They continued on.
As they descended another short flight of stairs, Soren felt a flicker of dizziness—not enough to stop him, but enough that he reached for the rail a beat earlier than usual. The ship compensated immediately, the floor adjusting its resistance beneath his feet, but the correction felt… delayed.
Rysen noticed the hand on the rail.
He said nothing.
Instead, he slowed fractionally, positioning himself half a step closer on Soren's left, close enough that his presence registered as a steadying factor without becoming intrusive.
Soren became acutely aware of it.
Not the closeness itself, but the choice behind it.
They reached the mid-deck junction and paused while Rysen checked a panel, fingers moving deftly over the controls. The readouts flickered, then settled into familiar patterns.
"All green," Rysen said. "No drift."
"Expected," Soren replied.
"Expected," Rysen echoed, with the faintest hint of wryness.
Soren shifted his weight, the movement slower than he intended. His joints felt stiff, the earlier chill lingering stubbornly despite the warmth of the deck. A dull ache had begun to spread behind his eyes, pulsing faintly with his heartbeat.
Rysen straightened from the panel. "You want to sit?"
The question was offered casually, without emphasis.
"No," Soren said. "I'm fine."
Rysen studied him for a moment longer, then nodded. "Alright."
They moved on.
The path took them through a series of narrower corridors, the lighting dimmer here, the hum of the ship more pronounced. Water from the earlier rain dripped faintly from exposed piping, the sound irregular but not alarming.
Soren's thoughts felt sluggish, as though wading through something thicker than usual. He found himself focusing on Rysen's presence more than the environment—the steady sound of his boots, the way his shoulders moved with each step, the quiet certainty of his navigation.
"You're warm," Rysen said suddenly.
Soren blinked. "What?"
"Your skin," Rysen clarified. "Flushed."
Soren lifted a hand to his cheek, surprised to find it warm to the touch. "Residual," he said. "From the shower."
Rysen did not immediately agree or disagree. "You're sweating," he added.
"Am I?"
"Lightly."
Soren exhaled, more sharply than he intended. "I didn't sleep."
"I know."
That made him look at Rysen fully. "You do?"
Rysen shrugged. "Captain mentioned it."
Of course he had.
They reached another junction, this one leading toward storage. Rysen paused, considering, then gestured toward a bench set into the wall—a functional thing, clearly meant for brief rests rather than comfort.
"Sit," he said.
It wasn't a request this time.
Soren hesitated, then complied, lowering himself onto the bench with a care that felt disproportionate to the movement. The surface was cool against the back of his thighs, grounding in a way he hadn't realized he needed.
Rysen remained standing, leaning back against the opposite wall, arms crossed loosely over his chest.
"You're not compromised," Rysen said after a moment. "But you're not optimal either."
Soren huffed softly. "You make it sound mechanical."
"Bodies are mechanical," Rysen replied. "Just… less predictable."
Soren leaned back, closing his eyes briefly. The ache behind them throbbed more insistently now, and his throat felt dry again despite the warmth of the air.
"Captain didn't need to assign you," he said quietly.
Rysen's gaze sharpened. "He did."
"He could've told me to stand down."
"Yes."
"Or to report to medical."
"Yes."
"But he didn't."
Rysen watched him for a long moment before answering. "No."
Silence stretched between them, filled only by the ship's steady hum.
"He knows you won't," Rysen said eventually.
Soren opened his eyes. "Won't what?"
"Rest," Rysen replied. "Unless someone puts themselves between you and whatever you think you need to do."
The words landed with uncomfortable accuracy.
Soren looked away, focusing on the seam in the wall opposite him. "This is temporary."
"Everything is," Rysen said. "That doesn't make it negligible."
Soren felt a faint shiver run through him, the chill finally breaking through the warmth of the deck. He pulled his coat tighter around himself without thinking.
Rysen noticed.
He pushed off the wall and crouched slightly in front of Soren, not close enough to crowd him, but close enough that Soren had to meet his eyes if he wanted to look anywhere at all.
"You're not in trouble," Rysen said quietly. "And I'm not here to report you."
"I know."
"I'm here to walk with you," Rysen continued. "That's it."
The simplicity of it undid something small in Soren's chest.
He nodded once.
"Good," Rysen said, straightening. "Then we'll take the long way back."
Soren didn't argue.
They resumed walking, Rysen's pace now unmistakably slower, his presence solid and unyielding beside Soren. The ship continued around them, systems humming, routines intact, deviation contained.
For the first time since waking, Soren let himself lean—not physically, but internally—into the shared movement, trusting someone else to hold the line while he caught his breath.
The corridor stretched ahead, unremarkable, familiar.
And for now, that was enough.
_________________________