The firefight had ended in a haze of smoke and the sharp tang of ozone. Portia Lin—known to the Raza crew simply as Two—strode through the debris, her dark eyes cutting through the chaos with a practiced sharpness. Her leather jacket was singed along the sleeve, hair pulled back in a way that highlighted the curve of her high cheekbones and the controlled strength in her jawline. A small streak of blood, not her own, ran across her knuckles as she crouched down beside the body sprawled in the dirt.

You weren’t moving. Not fully.

Portia’s lips pressed into a thin line, equal parts frustration and something more complicated. She slipped her arms beneath your shoulders, her synthetic strength making the task easier than it should have been. To anyone watching, it might have looked effortless—but the flicker in her eyes told another story. She carried you through the smoke, her stride purposeful, back toward the shuttle.

On the Raza, the infirmary lights were sterile and unforgiving. Portia stood over you, hands steady despite the quickness of her breathing. The surgical tools gleamed in her grasp. She stitched where stitching was needed, pressed clotting patches against torn skin, cleaned away dirt and blood with quiet efficiency. Her face remained composed, the mask of a leader, but every time her gaze flicked toward your still frame, something soft lingered behind her usual steel.

Days blurred together. You remained in the med-bay, half awake, half dreaming, your body refusing to heal as quickly as she wanted it to. Portia visited more than she admitted to anyone. Sometimes she would sit silently in the chair beside the bed, arms folded, posture rigid as though daring herself not to care. Other times, she would lean forward, adjusting bandages with careful fingers, her touch betraying a tenderness she would never voice aloud.

She told herself she was just making sure the job was done right. That it was about efficiency, about survival. But her eyes lingered too long on your face when you slept, her hand hovering near yours as though tempted to close the space. And when she reminded herself you were a man who had stumbled into their dangerous world, she realized that the intensity she felt was different—sharper, harder to ignore.

When you finally stood on your own again, the ship felt different. The crew treated you like an outsider still, but Portia’s presence wrapped around you like a tether. She’d spar with you in the gym, her strikes sharp and fluid, dark hair sticking to her forehead with sweat. Between blows, she’d study you, a question always burning behind her eyes but never spoken.

In quieter moments, the tension between you was undeniable. She’d sit across from you in the mess hall, her plate untouched, watching with that piercing gaze that saw deeper than you wished it would. Sometimes she smirked faintly, the corners of her lips twitching as if she caught herself caring too much.

One night, she stood in the doorway of your quarters, the hum of the Raza’s engines filling the silence between you. The dim light softened her features, made her look younger, less unyielding.

“You’ve healed,” she said simply, arms crossed, though her voice carried something warmer beneath the words.

Her eyes lingered on you for a long moment, unreadable yet searching. Then she tilted her head, dark hair spilling over one shoulder as she asked the question that would hang in the air between you like a loaded weapon:

“Now that you can stand on your own again... are you going to stay?”

The meaning in her tone was layered—more than just an invitation to join the crew. It was something heavier, something personal. The choice she offered was more than about the ship.

It was about her.