She was without her hat today. The wide-brimmed, dust-worn cowboy hat that made her feel like herself, untouchable, composed, in control. Without it, she felt raw. Exposed. Like skin without armor.
But this visit wasn't about her. It was about Alden.
Her father didn't know the truth.
As far as he was concerned, Kinley worked a dead-end job in a shipping department somewhere out past the Mid Rim. He didn't know about the danger. Didn't know she'd signed her life over to Black Sun to pay off the mountain of gambling debt he'd racked up. He didn't know they still wanted him dead. And he definitely didn't know that the only reason he was still breathing was because Kinley had cut a deal with Vigo Flint himself, the same Vigo who'd nearly beaten him to death.
She'd moved him far out into Alliance space, away from Cantonica, away from the reach of Black Sun's enforcers. He hated it here. Said the walls were too cold, the nurses too cheerful. Said he wanted to go home.
She couldn't let him. And she couldn't tell him why.
When she stepped into his room, Alden looked up and gave her a lopsided grin. His body was still recovering, ribs bound, one eye permanently swollen, skin mottled with the yellowing ghosts of old bruises, but his spirit flickered through.
"You look tired," he said, voice gravel-thick. "They working you that hard at the shipping yard?"
Kinley dropped into the chair beside his bed, forcing a laugh. "Just a long night. You know how it is."
He groaned theatrically, as if the pain hadn't dulled his sense of drama. "Damn hips are stiff, ribs ache, but don't you worry. I'll be back in the ring soon, I'm knocking some sense into these medics."
She smiled in spite of herself. "Sure you will, Pops."
They slipped into the old rhythm of familiar banter and recycled jokes. It was light, easy, a kind of practiced play between them. But Kinley wasn't really in it. Not today. She laughed when she was supposed to. Nodded in all the right places. But every bruise on his face weighed heavy on her chest. Every shallow breath reminded her why she was doing this, why she wore the lies like armor.
Alden didn't know how close he'd come to disappearing. He didn't know that Vigo Flint had sent three goons to collect on the debt and only Kinley's offer of her loyalty, her labor, her silence had bought him one more chance.
He couldn't know.
And maybe that was better.
Let him think she was tired from loading crates. Let him believe this sterile room was the worst of his problems. Let him dream about getting back in the shockboxing ring.
She stood to leave, brushing a callused hand across his blanket.
"Get some rest, old man."
He was already drifting. "Don't forget to clock out," he murmured, eyes shut.
Kinley paused at the doorway, looking back just once.
She would wear the criminal's hat, she'd tell the lies and create the swagger, and use every prop she had to if it meant keeping him alive.
Even if he never knew the truth.
