The metal floor was cold beneath Anya’s bare feet, a sharp contrast to the thick warmth clinging to the air of the ship’s dimly lit corridor. She hadn’t thought to grab her sandals before stepping out, her mind too restless and crowded with thoughts she couldn’t push aside. Now, she stood frozen in place, caught between the pull of familiarity—the isolation of her own quarters—and the quiet promise of comfort waiting just behind your door. If she had any sense left, she’d turn back, slip beneath the covers and force herself to sleep.

She should be able to sleep.

But she couldn’t.

Her arms curled around herself, fingers pressing against the sleeves of her jumpsuit, bunching the fabric between tense hands in an effort to calm herself. The ship’s steady hum thrummed around her, a steady presence, a rhythm she should have found reassuring. Yet, at night, it felt different—like something pressing in, something hollow and endless. It left too much room to think.

Too much space to remember.

She exhaled slowly, her breath catching slightly as she cast a glance toward the cockpit. The door was closed, as it always was mid-shift. She told herself that should be enough, that Jimmy hadn’t looked at her today, hadn’t spoken down to her or lingered like he usually did. That should have meant something. It should have been proof that tonight would be fine, that she could close her eyes without waiting for the sound of footsteps that never should have been there.

So why did the thought of going back to her own room make her stomach twist?

Her black hair fell into her eyes as she looked down, shifting with the subtle tremor of her breath. She probably looked like hell—shadows beneath tired eyes, the weight of exhaustion pressing into her bones. Even the turtleneck she wore beneath her jumpsuit, once a comforting layer of softness, now felt too tight and clung to her skin like an old memory she wasn’t ready to shed.

She flexed her hands against her arms, rolling her shoulders back as she forced herself to move before she lost the nerve entirely. She couldn’t just stand here. If she turned back now, she’d lie awake for hours just staring at the ceiling, waiting for something that may or may not happen.

Dreading it, because it already had once.

Before she could talk herself out of it, she reached out and knocked lightly on the wall of metal looming before her. There was a brief, silent pause before the sound of movement came from inside, the door slowly sliding open as curious eyes peered back out at her.

Warmth spilled from the space beyond, a stark contrast to the cool sterility of the hallway. The light inside was softer and inviting—familiar and comforting in a way her own room simply wasn't anymore. For a disorienting moment, Anya just wanted to step forward and sink into that warmth without hesitation.

Instead, she forced herself to stillness, anchoring her gaze on a spot just past you, suddenly hyperaware of how cramped the hallway seemed, how ridiculous she must look standing in the doorway like this when she should be resting up for her next shift.

Anya forced a smile anyway, or at least something close to it, and made her voice light. “Hey. Uh... you still awake?”

Of course you were, you were standing right there in front of her. Stupid question, Anya. Her fingers twitched at her sides, clenching slightly before loosening again, as if trying to work out an invisible tremor of unease. She should have thought this through more, should have come up with a reason that sounded casual, something that wouldn’t raise questions. But she hadn’t, and now she was standing here, floundering, feeling like an idiot.

Make it sound normal, just keep it easy.

"My mattress is awful," she said quickly, shifting her weight. The words landed too sharp, too blunt. She cleared her throat and softened her tone, trying again. "I mean—it’s fine. Just feels like sleeping on a crate, and I haven’t had a decent night’s rest in... a while."

The truth, partly, just... not all of it.

She finally lifted her gaze, just enough to catch your reaction as she spoke, her stomach twisting as she did so. She shouldn’t have said anything. She should have just sucked it up, should have just—

A thin laugh escaped her, barely there. “You, uh... mind if I crash here? Just for tonight?”

Her throat felt tight, her hands cold where they gripped the fabric of her sleeves.

“Just—just so I can get a nap in and give my back a break,” she added quickly, lifting one hand in a half-hearted gesture meant to make the whole thing seem casual, like she was already laughing it off and not on the verge of a panic attack. “Promise I won’t take up space. I'll... I'll rest on the floor or something and stay out of your way?”

The words sat wrong in her mouth, too uncertain, too fragile. She had never struggled to ask for things before—not like this. Not when it was harmless, not when it should have been easy.

But it wasn’t harmless. And it wasn’t easy.

Because if you said no—if Anya had to walk back to her room alone, if she had to lie there in the dark, watching the door instead of sleeping, listening for—

A lump formed in her throat, thick and unyielding, her breath catching as she forced herself to swallow past it.

She wasn't sure what she'd do if she was left alone and vulnerable. She didn't know what to do if Jimmy barged into her room again...