Private Frame and Engine

[Deanez]

Breakfast unfolded without ceremony.

Dean sat at a small table shaded by wide-leafed trees, the surface cool beneath her forearms, a datapad resting between two untouched cups of tea. The planet insisted on calm in ways she found mildly suspicious—soft light, slow air currents, the distant sound of water moving with no urgency at all. She had already noted the exits, the sightlines, the nearest cover, and then dismissed them as adequate to allow her attention elsewhere.

Rynar ate across from her.

Not quickly. Not distracted. He tore bread with his hands, paused between bites, occasionally glancing out toward the horizon as if committing the place to memory. He looked healthier than he had on Bastion, more grounded, less like someone waiting for the next interruption. Dean registered all of it without comment, the way she did most things that mattered.

She tapped the datapad awake.

A scroll of ship schematics filled the screen, cleanly organized. Mid-range civilian hulls. Retrofitted freighters. Courier-class vessels with upgraded engines and questionable histories. She had filtered aggressively already—no transponder anomalies she could not correct, no maintenance gaps that suggested structural neglect, no designs that relied on single points of failure.

Her finger paused on one listing.

"Frame is reinforced along the spine," she said calmly, not looking up. "It would survive atmospheric entry under stress. Power routing has three redundancies, two of which are isolated from the main control systems. If we lost the cockpit, it would still fly."

Rynar leaned closer, chewing slowly, eyes following the schematic as it rotated. He did not speak. He did not need to. The angle of his head told her what he was looking for instead.

She adjusted the display, pulling up internal layouts.

"Crew quarters are compact," Dean continued. "Efficient. Storage is adequate but not generous. Life support is rated for extended operation, but only if maintained properly."

She felt him pause beside her, the faint stillness of attention, and she added, quieter, "It would not be comfortable."

Rynar reached for his cup then, sipping, eyes still on the pad. He lingered on the galley schematic longer than the engine readout. In the sleeping area. On the small, almost apologetic common space tucked between systems.

Dean noticed.

She moved to the next listing with a flick of her thumb.

"This one sacrifices speed for stability," she said. "Wider hull. Better internal volume. Slower acceleration, but smoother travel. You would feel the motion less."

She stopped herself from saying you would sleep better.

Rynar finished his bite and nodded once, subtle, thoughtful. He rested his forearm on the table near the datapad, close enough that she could feel the warmth through the stone.

Dean zoomed in on the engine housing.

"Escape vectors are limited," she admitted. "If pursued, this ship survives by enduring, not outrunning. It assumes you will live aboard it, not just use it."

Her words slowed as she said it.

Rynar's gaze flicked briefly to her, then back to the screen. He did not argue. He did not correct. He stayed there, present, eating breakfast like a man who intended to be alive long enough to care where he slept.

Dean exhaled, the sound controlled but quieter than usual.

She toggled the datapad to split view, placing the two ships side by side. One optimized for survival under fire. One optimized for days that stretched without crisis.

"This is the difference," she said, more to herself than to him. "I choose frames that hold under pressure. You choose engines that don't burn out the people inside them."

Rynar swallowed, set his cup down, and reached out to scroll back not past her choice, but not away from it either. He stopped with the listings aligned, his hand resting beside hers on the edge of the pad.

Dean did not pull away.

She looked at the paired schematics again, sunlight glinting off the screen, the quiet planet surrounding them with unreasonable peace.

"For once," she said softly, "we have time to decide."

Rynar took another bite of bread, unhurried, and leaned in closer to look.

Dean let the datapad remain open between them, balanced not on urgency or threat, but on something new.

Sustainability.

And the possibility that survivability need not stand alone.

Rynar Solde

 

[Rynar Solde]

Rynar leaned closer to the datapad, fingers tracing the outlines of the schematics as sunlight glinted off the screen. He didn't speak immediately, letting the quiet of the morning stretch around them, punctuated by the soft crunch of bread between his fingers.
Finally, he spoke, low and measured. "I see why you favor survivability. It endures. It holds under pressure." His gaze flicked to the reinforced hull lines, the redundant systems. "Necessary. Practical."

He swiped across the display, pulling up a TIE/es-style assault shuttle. Its armor was solid, the weapons mounts plentiful, engines designed for bursts of speed. "This one," he said, tapping the cockpit schematic, "would let us respond quickly. Evade threats. Engage if we have to. It sacrifices living space… yes. But that is something we can work around." His eyes drifted to the cramped crew quarters. "Short trips, brief resupply stops… tolerable. Longer-term… it will be a challenge. For both of us. For Cupcake."


Rynar scrolled next to a lightly modified gunship with cargo space. internal volume larger, storage for supplies, weapons, and essentials. Not as fast or sleek as the TIE/es, but versatile. "This one compromises speed slightly, but allows for movement, carrying what we need. Ammo, rations, maintenance gear… a place for Cupcake without squeezing her into a corner. We could live aboard this one, not just survive."

He leaned back, eyes flicking between the two, calculating. "Top speed… adequate. Engines could handle pursuit or a quick exit if needed. Maneuvering thrusters are good, but not exceptional. Both options require deliberate piloting. We cannot rely solely on luck."


His forearm brushed the edge of the datapad near hers. "I trust your judgment. I only… want to understand the life we would lead aboard it. Not just endurance under fire, but actual inhabitation. Meals, sleep, movement, planning, living alongside one another and Cupcake."
Rynar returned to the assault shuttle readouts, examining internal layout and cargo capacity, engine output, and weapon mounts. "This one favors action over comfort, but it does not ignore survivability entirely. With modifications, careful packing, and attention to detail… it could serve us well."


He finally paused, gaze meeting hers with quiet steadiness. "If we choose speed and firepower over space and comfort, we must do so knowingly. Every choice echoes in how we survive, move, and fight. I prefer that the choice be deliberate, not accidental. I want a ship that carries us, and all that we bring with us, without leaving anything or anyone behind."

Deanez

 

[Deanez]

Dean listened without interrupting, her attention divided between the datapad and the small, ordinary details of the morning that she had learned not to ignore anymore: the way the light warmed the edge of the table, the steady rhythm of him eating beside her, the fact that silence no longer felt like something that needed to be defended against.

When he finished, and the datapad settled between them again, she reached for it, not pulling it away, just angling it so the schematics aligned more cleanly with her line of sight. Her fingers moved with familiar precision, expanding hull cross-sections, highlighting redundancies, calling up failure-state projections that lived several layers deeper than the sales summary.

"You are not wrong," she said calmly, eyes on the display rather than on him. "The assault shuttle survives contact. It is built to take damage, disengage, and keep flying even when something important fails." Her fingertip traced the reinforced spine, the duplicated control paths, the hard-sealed compartments. "It assumes the worst and plans accordingly. That kind of thinking is…familiar."

She shifted the display to the second vessel, the gunship with expanded internal volume, cargo bays, and adaptable space. Her gaze lingered there longer, not dismissive, but careful.

"This one gives us margin," Dean continued quietly. "Not in combat. In time. In endurance that is not measured in minutes or burn rates." She highlighted power distribution, life support capacity, and maintenance access. "It tolerates damage less gracefully, but it tolerates people better. Repairs can be done without tearing the ship apart. Supplies can be carried without choosing between ammunition and food."

Her hand paused over the layout where crew space widened, where movement was possible without constant adjustment, where Cupcake would not be forced to compress herself into a corner meant for equipment.

"I default to survivability because it is what keeps you alive when everything else goes wrong," Dean said, finally glancing toward him, her expression composed but not closed. "But survivability alone assumes that the goal is only to escape. Again. And again."

She let that settle before speaking again.

"I am learning," she admitted, the words chosen carefully, "that a ship can be more than an exit vector. It can be a place where recovery is possible, where routines exist. Where damage is not the only thing anticipated."

Her thumb brushed the edge of the datapad, a small grounding motion.

"If we choose speed and firepower," she went on, "I will make certain it can get us out of situations we cannot afford to stay in. I know how to harden a vessel beyond its intended limits." A pause. "But if we choose space and sustainability, I will need to accept that not every threat is meant to be outrun. Some are meant to be endured."

She looked back down at the schematics, not avoiding him, simply thinking.

"This is not a tactical decision alone," Dean concluded softly. "It is a statement about how we expect to live between crises. Whether we plan only for impact…or for the days that come after."

She did not push the datapad toward him or pull it closer to herself. She left it where it was, shared space, shared choice.

"We can make either one work," she said. "What matters is that we choose it with clear eyes."

Rynar Solde

 

[Rynar Solde]

Rynar let the silence linger a moment, eyes scanning the layouts again, weighing each choice with the same careful precision she had. "You are right," he said quietly, voice low but steady. "A vessel's limits can be altered once it's in our hands. Reinforced. Reworked. Adapted. The frame itself is just the beginning. How we inhabit it. that is where the real work begins."

As he lifted a piece of bread toward his mouth, a sudden blur of motion caught him off guard. Cupcake leapt gracefully onto the table, teeth snatching the morsel before he could react. He watched her chew for a beat, and then, instead of pulling it back, let her have it. A small, almost imperceptible smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "I suppose she approves," he muttered, shaking his head lightly.

Returning his attention to Dean, he gestured at the schematics again, careful not to crowd her space. "I will have to… get used to living with someone other than Cupcake," he said, his tone flat but thoughtful, almost like a quiet admission. "Just as you are learning that a ship can be more than an escape vector. That it can be a place to recover. To breathe. To… notice small things and let them matter."


He paused, tapping a finger along the highlighted life support systems on the gunship layout, eyes lingering on the wider crew quarters. "I understand now. Not every mission, not every moment, demands immediate survival. Some allow for… stability. For routine. For comfort, even in small measures. And I see the value in that. In allowing a place to exist where the day is not only measured by threats endured, but by what can be preserved between them."


Rynar leaned back slightly, a rare stillness settling over him. "We can make either vessel work. But if we do not account for those small things, space for Cupcake, for provisions, for quiet moments, we risk overlooking what it is we are truly trying to protect. Life, not only endurance."
He exhaled, quiet, measured. "I will adapt. As will we. It is… not simple. But it is worth the effort."

Deanez

 

[Deanez]

Dean listened without interrupting, her attention split evenly between his words and the schematics glowing on the datapad between them. She did not rush to respond, letting the quiet settle in the way she had learned to do only recently, resisting the old instinct to fill every pause with analysis or correction.

When Cupcake stole the bread, Dean's gaze flicked up just in time to catch the exchange. The way Rynar let it happen. The way he accepted it without irritation or reclaiming control. It registered more clearly than any specification on the screen. Her mouth softened, just barely, before she looked back down at the datapad.

"You are not wrong," she said at last, her voice low and even. "Frames can be reinforced. Systems can be replaced. Redundancies can be layered until failure becomes unlikely instead of inevitable." Her finger traced a line along the hull schematic, then paused. "I was trained to stop there. To assume that survival was the end state."

She glanced at him then, not searching his face, but acknowledging what he had said.

"It is taking me longer to accept that endurance alone is not the same as living," Dean continued. "A ship that only runs is useful. A ship that can be inhabited reshapes how decisions are made. It allows room for recovery instead of constant readiness." Her eyes returned to the wider crew quarters he had been studying. "That kind of space alters risk calculations. In subtle ways, but permanent ones."

She rested the datapad flat on the table, palms briefly braced against its edge.

"I notice things now that I used to discount," she admitted. "Where someone sleeps. Where supplies are stored so they can be reached without thought. How sound carries. Whether there is a place that does not feel like a corridor or a station." A pause, thoughtful. "Those things do not keep you alive in a firefight. But they keep you functional afterward."

Her gaze lifted to him entirely this time, steady and unguarded.

"You are right about Cupcake. About provisions. About quiet moments," Dean said. "If we choose a vessel that denies those, we are choosing to live as if we are always one step from loss. I do not want to build a future that assumes collapse as its baseline."

She exhaled slowly, mirroring his earlier calm.

"It will not be simple," she agreed. "There will be compromises either way. But I am willing to learn how to inhabit something instead of escape from it." The faintest curve touched her mouth, restrained but real. "And I am willing to do the work that comes with that. With you."

Her hand settled near the datapad again, not reclaiming control of it, just sharing the space.

"We will choose deliberately," Dean finished quietly. "Not for the next fight. For the life that has to continue between them."

Rynar Solde

 

[Rynar Solde]

Rynar's gaze lingered on the datapad, letting the quiet stretch between them as he absorbed her words. Each phrase she spoke seemed to settle something long dormant in him. the idea that a ship could be more than a framework for escape, that endurance alone was not the sum of living.

"You are right," he said finally, voice low, deliberate. "Reinforcements, redundancies, modifications… those are tools. But how we inhabit the space, that is what shapes the future we choose to live in, not merely survive."

He swiped across the schematics again, tapping to bring up a detailed profile. "I've been considering something specific," he continued, tilting the datapad so she could see. "The AEG-77 Vigo. Gunship-class. Eight crew, six passengers. Armed versions carry roughly twenty-five tons of cargo; unarmed, up to one hundred." His eyes flicked to the imagined paths of movement, picturing Cupcake weaving gracefully through the corridors, her full-grown frame able to stretch and move without risk of being cramped or trapped. "It provides space for supplies, for personal quarters, and for her. Enough room to exist comfortably without forcing constant compromise."

He leaned back slightly, letting the datapad hover between them. "It is fast, durable, and armed. Not merely a transport, but a platform capable of handling threats should they find us. And yet, it offers volume, internal space sufficient to move without squeezing ourselves, quarters large enough to maintain routines, areas that do not feel like hallways or stations."

Rynar's expression softened, the calm patience he carried with Cupcake extending subtly toward Dean. "This choice, like any, requires compromise. Firepower and speed for space and comfort. But it can be reinforced further. Systems can be upgraded. And it can carry what we need. without denying the small moments that matter."

Deanez

 

[Deanez]

Dean studied the schematics in silence, her attention sharpening as the profile resolved into clearer detail. She did not react immediately. Instead, she took the time to trace the implications the way she always did, following lines of power distribution, internal volume, and structural load as if she were already walking the corridors in her mind.

"The Vigo," she said at last, quietly, as if testing the name for weight rather than familiarity.

Her finger moved across the display, not swiping away what he had chosen, but drilling deeper into it. Hull thickness. Engine placement. Redundant life support nodes. Escape pods were distributed along the ventral and aft sections rather than clustered. Her posture shifted almost imperceptibly, the sign that something had caught and held.

"It is not reckless," Dean continued, measured and precise. "And it is not indulgent. That matters." She paused on the cargo metrics, then on the internal compartmentalization. "One hundred tons unarmed means we are not forced into constant resupply. It means we can choose where to go rather than be dictated to by necessity. That alone changes the risk profile."

Her gaze lifted briefly to him, acknowledging the unspoken reasons threaded through his choice, then returned to the datapad.

"The frame supports reinforcement without compromising maneuverability," she noted. "Shielding upgrades would not overload the power curve. Weapons mounts are sufficient without forcing the ship into a purely aggressive posture." A quiet breath. "It is capable of fighting its way out if it has to, but it is not designed only to fight."

She let the datapad rest flat between them again.

"This is not a vessel chosen to flee," Dean said. "It is a vessel chosen to continue." Her voice softened slightly, not less certain, but more personal. "There is room here for routine. For rest. For movement that is not dictated by urgency. And space for Cupcake that does not turn her into another variable we have to manage."

She folded her hands loosely, considering him now as much as the ship.

"I would still add redundancies," she said, almost wryly. "Secondary control routing. Hardened comms. A quieter escape vector than the standard pods." Then, after a beat, "But I would not strip it down to make it smaller. That would defeat the point."

Dean met his gaze fully.

"You are choosing a ship that assumes we will still be here tomorrow," she said. "That we will need places to sleep, to eat, to think, and to recover. That assumption is not a weakness. It is intent."

She inclined her head slightly, a gesture of alignment rather than concession.

"If this is the direction you are leaning," Dean finished, calm and clear, "then I can build survivability into it without erasing what you are trying to preserve. I think that matters more than maximizing any single metric."

Her hand rested near the datapad, not claiming it, simply sharing it.

"This one," she said quietly, "feels like a place we could live. Not just endure."

Rynar Solde

 

[Rynar Solde]

Rynar studied her, the corners of his eyes catching the way her attention lingered on the Vigo's compartments and redundancies. He did not speak immediately, letting her assessment settle in the quiet space between them. When he finally did, his voice was calm, measured, carrying that familiar weight of practicality.

"You are right," he said quietly. "It is not chosen to flee, but to continue. To exist beyond the immediate threat. That is… intentional. And necessary." He tapped lightly on the datapad, bringing up a small side table of numbers. "There is another consideration we should not overlook: cost."

He swiped through the purchase data, highlighting the figures. "Brand new, this ship would run roughly two hundred thousand credits. Used… seventy-five thousand. A difference that matters." He let that settle, eyes flicking toward her. "Acquiring it used would free up credits for reinforcement, systems upgrades, crew accommodations… modifications to ensure the space is truly livable. Nothing comes without trade-offs, but this allows us to preserve what matters without stripping the ship to a shell."

His fingers hovered over the schematics again, tracing cargo bays and crew quarters. "Space is valuable. Not just for supplies, but for movement, for routine, for Cupcake. She is not small; she is full-grown, and she requires room to move, to rest, without constant supervision or compromise. Every extra meter of deck, every cubic meter of hold counts toward that quality of life we are trying to protect."


Rynar leaned back slightly, letting the datapad rest where it was, aligned with hers. "We will need to balance upgrades, reinforcements, and modifications with our credits. Ensuring the ship is space-worthy in every sense, functional, safe, and habitable. will require both time and investment. But in the end, the goal is the same: a vessel that carries us, not just through danger, but into something resembling normalcy between crises."


He finally allowed a hint of softness, almost imperceptible, to enter his tone. "It will take effort, yes. But… I am willing to make that effort. If it means we have a place to exist, not just survive."

Deanez

 

[Deanez]

Dean absorbed the numbers without comment at first, her gaze steady on the datapad as if the figures themselves were part of the architecture. Cost was never abstract to her. Credits meant time bought, options preserved, mistakes avoided. She let his breakdown stand on its own before responding, respecting the care with which he had framed it.

"You are not wrong," she said quietly. "Seventy-five thousand for a used frame is not a compromise. It is leverage." Her finger moved to the margin of the schematic, annotating in her head rather than on the screen. "It gives us margin for error. Margin for improvement. That matters more than pristine hull plating ever could."

She tilted the datapad slightly, just enough to bring up maintenance histories and stress-cycle data. "A used vessel also tells a story. Where it has failed, where it has held, that information is valuable." A pause, thoughtful. "New ships fail in ways you cannot predict yet. Old ones fail in patterns."

Her attention lingered on the cargo and living space again, this time with clearer intent. "If we buy used, we can afford to reinforce without gutting. Structural bracing where it matters. Quiet redundancy instead of visible armor." Her voice softened a fraction. "And we do not have to make living space the first thing sacrificed."

At the mention of Cupcake, her gaze lifted briefly to him, acknowledging the weight beneath the logistics. "You are right about her. Designing around her needs is not indulgence. It is foresight. Anything that cannot accommodate those we care for will eventually fail us."

She rested the datapad flat again, aligning it between them the way she had earlier, a shared center rather than a contested one.

"I can work with this," Dean said. "Used frame. Incremental upgrades. Systems first, weapons second, comfort integrated rather than added later." A small exhale. "That sequence keeps us mobile without turning the ship into a bunker."

Her eyes met his, steady and unguarded.

"Normalcy is not something you stumble into," she said. "It is something you engineer deliberately, piece by piece, the same way you engineer survival." The faintest hint of resolve settled into her expression. "If this is the goal, then this is a viable path."

She did not reach for his hand. She did not need to. The alignment was already there.

"I am willing to put in the work," Dean finished quietly. "Not because it is easy, but because building something that can hold us between crises is worth the effort."

Rynar Solde

 

[Rynar Solde]

Rynar remained still for a moment after speaking, eyes returning to the schematics as if confirming something he had already decided. Then he reached out again, drawing the display outward, letting the full scale of the ship resolve.
"There is one more factor," he said quietly. "One that makes this less of a burden than it appears."


He expanded the internal layout. three full decks unfolding in layered sections. Bridge and secondary control rooms. Conference and planning spaces. Crew quarters separated enough to allow privacy without isolation. A dedicated war room. Cargo bays large enough to walk through without ducking or turning sideways.

"This is not a small ship," Rynar continued. "Not truly. It borders on a light capital profile. Three decks. Redundant access points. Internal separation that allows damage to be contained without crippling the whole vessel." His finger paused briefly on the bridge. "Which means we do not need to treat piloting as a constant strain."


He flicked to a secondary data set. "I know a handful of droid-smiths. Quiet ones. Reliable. They could integrate an advanced autopilot suite, one capable of assuming full control of all six crew stations if necessary. Not a simple nav-droid," he clarified. "A system that can manage thrust, shielding, routing, and evasive response without degrading performance."

His gaze lifted briefly to her. "That means one of us can fly if needed. Or neither of us, if we choose. The ship does not demand constant attention to remain functional."

He let that settle, then gestured back to the scale diagram. "Its age works in its favor. Any vessel that has survived this long has proven its frame. Its stress tolerances. New ships fail in unexpected ways. Older ones fail honestly." A faint pause. "That matters to me."

Rynar leaned back slightly, folding his hands loosely. "Yes, it is dated. Yes, it will require refitting. But for the price, we gain space, stability, and flexibility. A vessel that can carry us, Cupcake included, without forcing every decision to revolve around efficiency or urgency."
His voice softened, not weakened, simply grounded. "This is a ship you grow into. One that allows life to expand rather than compress. That is worth the credits. And the work."

He looked back to the datapad, then to her.
"If we are choosing to continue," Rynar said quietly, "then we should choose something that expects us to still be here long enough to need rooms, not corridors."

Deanez

 

[Deanez]

Dean did not answer immediately. She leaned in closer instead, close enough that her shoulder nearly brushed his, eyes following the layered decks as they unfolded across the datapad. The scale of it changed the conversation in a way numbers alone never could. Corridors became rooms. Rooms became places where time could pass without being counted in alarms or evasive maneuvers.

She studied the internal separation first, the way bulkheads segmented the ship into survivable sections rather than a single continuous vulnerability. Her gaze lingered on access points and pressure doors, already mapping how damage would travel, where it would stop, and how long it would buy them. When she spoke, her voice was quiet, thoughtful, the tone she used when something clicked into place rather than when she argued.

"You are right," she said at last. "This is not a burden. It is a redistribution of effort." She shifted the display slightly, highlighting the redundancy paths almost unconsciously. "A ship like this absorbs strain instead of transferring it directly to the crew. That alone changes how long people can function aboard it without burning out."

At the mention of the autopilot suite, her attention sharpened. Not skepticism. Interest. "Full-station integration," she echoed softly. "That means we are not chained to the bridge. It means sleeping without timers. Meals without one of us counting seconds between checks." A pause. "That matters more than I would have admitted a year ago."

She glanced at him then, briefly, as if acknowledging that the admission itself was part of the same shift he was naming.

"Older frames tell the truth," Dean continued, returning her focus to the schematics. "They creak where they are weak. They fail where they have always failed. That makes them honest." Her finger traced the outline of the hull. "I trust honesty more than innovation when survival is on the line."

She straightened slightly, not pulling away, simply re-centering herself. "This ship does not force urgency as a default state," she said. "It allows for delegation. For rest. For planning that extends beyond the next jump." A faint pause. "It assumes continuity."

Her eyes lifted to meet his, steady and clear.

"If we are choosing to continue," Dean said quietly, "then this frame aligns with that choice. It does not ask us to stay small. It gives us room to recover, to adapt, and to live without treating every day as a temporary condition."

She let her hand rest near the datapad, not touching his, but close enough to make the shared space unmistakable.

"I agree with you," she finished. "If we expect to be here still long enough to need rooms instead of corridors, then this is the kind of ship that makes that expectation reasonable."

Rynar Solde

 

[Rynar Solde]

Rynar let her words settle fully before moving. When he did, it was unhurried.
His hand came to rest over hers where it hovered near the datapad. steady, deliberate, not claiming, just present. He didn't squeeze. He didn't rush the contact. It was simply there, an acknowledgment of the space they were sharing and the decision taking shape between them.


"I'm glad," he said quietly. Not relief exactly, something steadier. "That you're choosing this with me. Not because it is optimal on paper, but because it fits the life we are not running from anymore."

His thumb shifted slightly, a subtle grounding gesture, before he looked back to the schematics. "But I need to ask you something. Plainly."
He expanded the maintenance overlays, reactor access, conduit runs, structural stress points across three decks. "This ship will demand more attention than anything smaller. More systems. More inspections. More time spent keeping it honest." His gaze returned to her, steady and unguarded. "Are you alright with that?"

Not a challenge. Not doubt. Respect.
"It will mean choosing upkeep over speed sometimes. Repairs over departure. Living with a ship that asks to be cared for instead of simply used." A pause. "I can handle the work. The logistics. The coordination. But I won't pretend it won't ask something of you, too."

He let the datapad dim slightly, the decision no longer theoretical.
"I don't want this to become another structure you have to hold together alone," Rynar said softly. "If we choose something this large, this permanent… it has to be a shared responsibility. A shared rhythm."

His hand remained where it was, calm and warm.
"If you're comfortable with that," he finished, "then I think this ship won't just carry us. I think it will belong to us."
And for the first time since the conversation began, he didn't look like a man preparing to move on. only one prepared to stay.

Deanez

 

[Deanez]

Dean did not pull her hand away.

If anything, she let it settle more firmly beneath his, accepting the contact without surprise, without hesitation, as if it were the most natural extension of the conversation they had been having all along. She looked down at the maintenance overlays as he expanded them, her attention tracing conduit paths and access corridors with the same quiet focus she once reserved for threat projections and contingency trees.

When she spoke, her voice was steady, unguarded, and precise, carrying intention rather than caution.

"I am," she said simply at first, then continued when the weight of the question fully registered. "More than all right. I am prepared for it."

Her gaze lifted to his, not defensive, not reassuring for his sake alone, but honest in a way that left no room for misunderstanding.

"I have spent most of my life maintaining structures that did not belong to me," Dean said quietly. "Institutions. Networks. Chains of command that demanded constant vigilance while offering no permanence in return. I learned how to keep them functioning because failure was not an option, but I was never allowed to feel ownership of the work. Only responsibility."

She glanced back at the schematics, at the way the ship's complexity unfolded not as a threat but as an ecosystem.

"This," she continued, "is different. It asks for care, not obedience. It requires attention, not sacrifice. And if it takes time for repairs instead of departure, that is not a delay. That is the intention. That is choosing to preserve what carries us forward rather than burning through it because momentum feels safer than stillness."

Her thumb shifted slightly beneath his hand, a small, grounding motion that mirrored his earlier gesture.

"I will not let this become something you hold together alone," Dean said, her tone firm now, not hardened, but anchored. "If we choose a vessel like this, then the rhythm of its upkeep becomes part of our lives. Inspections become routine. Maintenance becomes shared. Decisions about when to stop and tend to it become decisions we make together, not compromises one of us shoulders silently."

She met his gaze again, eyes clear, unwavering.

"I am not afraid of permanence," she said softly. "I was afraid of being the only one responsible for it. That is not what this is."

Her fingers curled just enough to acknowledge his hand, not tightening, simply affirming presence.

"If we choose this ship," Dean finished, "then it will not be another structure I am holding together by myself. It will be something we inhabit deliberately, care for deliberately, and allow to carry us without demanding that either of us disappear into the work."

She did not rush the moment. She did not try to seal it with certainty beyond what it deserved.

"I am comfortable with that," she said at last. "And I am choosing it with you."

She stayed where she was, hand still beneath his, posture calm and aligned, already moving in step with the future he had named.

Rynar Solde