Page 23 of Return to Sender
“That is... a complex question with significant diplomatic implications.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“No,” he agrees quietly, his eyes searching my face in the dim light. “It is not.”
As we navigate the maintenance corridors—Wi’kar consulting some internal map he’s memorized because of course he has—I find myself studying his profile in the dim light. The careful way he’s positioned himself between me and any potential threat. The unconscious possessiveness in the way his hand hovers near my back. The tightness around his eyes that speaks of someone fighting reactions he doesn’t understand.
“Why did you do it?” he asks suddenly, his voice carefully neutral.
“Do what?”
“Intercept the neural disruptor blast. It was tactically unsound. You could have been killed.”
I consider deflecting, but something in his tone—something vulnerable beneath the formal language—makes me answer honestly. “Because they were aiming at you. Because of me.”
“I do not understand.”
“The bounty. Dante painted you as a villain because of me. You’re only in danger because I stowed away on your ship.” Ipause, then add quietly, “You didn’t deserve to be shot in the back with an illegal weapon because of my family drama.”
He’s silent for a moment, and when he speaks, his voice carries something like wonder. “You risked yourself... for me.”
“Don’t sound so surprised,” I mutter, suddenly uncomfortable with his focus. “It was just instinct.”
“An instinct to protect,” he observes. “Despite our brief acquaintance and initially adversarial relationship.”
The way he says it, like he’s discovering something precious and unexpected, makes my chest feel tight. “Well, someone has to look out for you, Agent Stiff. You’re too busy calculating optimal routes to notice when people are trying to kill you.”
“I noticed,” he says quietly. “I simply... did not expect you to intervene.”
“Why? Because I’m just a spoiled princess who’s never had to fight for anything?”
He stops walking and turns to face me fully, his expression serious in the dim light. “No. Because in my experience, people do not place themselves at risk for someone they have known for less than a week. Especially not for someone whose presence has complicated their life considerably.”
There’s something vulnerable in the way he says it, like he’s genuinely confused by the concept of someone caring about his welfare without ulterior motive. The careful way he holds himself, the slight uncertainty in his voice—it’s like no one has ever risked themselves for him before.
“Wi’kar,” I say softly, reaching out to touch his arm. “Has no one ever...”
I don’t finish the question, but understanding flickers across his features. For just a moment, his careful control slips, and I see something almost heartbreakingly lonely in his eyes—a flash of someone who’s spent his entire life being valued for his competence rather than himself.
Then his expression shutters, and he’s back to military precision. “We should continue. The hunters may discover this access point.”
But as we resume walking, something has fundamentally shifted between us. Wi’kar’s hand finds mine in the darkness, his grip warm and sure, and he doesn’t let go even when the tunnel widens enough for us to walk separately.
By the time we reach the spaceport access, my arm is functioning again, though the shoulder still throbs. Wi’kar checks his scanner before opening the final door, but his other hand remains linked with mine.
“The immediate area appears clear,” he reports. “However, it is likely the hunters have alerted port security.”
I straighten, pushing away the lingering effects of the neural disruption. “I’m ready.”
He studies me with those alien eyes, then unexpectedly reaches out to adjust my hood, pulling it forward to better conceal my features. But his fingers linger, brushing against my cheek, and the simple contact sends heat racing through me.
“For optimal disguise efficiency,” he explains, but his voice has gone rough around the edges, and his thumb traces briefly across my lower lip.
“Of course,” I agree, my own voice softer than intended. “Wouldn’t want to compromise the mission parameters.”
His eyes drop to my lips for just a moment—long enough for the air between us to turn electric—before he pulls away.
“Indeed,” he says, but it sounds like he’s trying to convince himself.
