The amber sleep-cycle lights in Unit 47-B had dimmed to a faint honey glow, turning the tiny dorm into something almost intimate. The viewport showed the slow rotation of the station wheel—stars streaking in lazy arcs like someone had dragged a brush of light across black velvet. Kiran's soft snores came from the opposite bunk stack. Sofia's tablet had auto-dimmed to black twenty minutes ago. The room felt smaller at night, the air thicker, every small sound amplified.
Ethan lay on his top bunk, arms folded behind his head, staring at the ceiling constellations someone had coded in years ago. He hadn't slept. Not really. Every time he closed his eyes, he replayed the spaceport moment: her wrist under his fingers, pulse racing, hazel eyes flashing with six years of buried hurt.
Down below, Ava shifted. The bunk creaked faintly. She wasn't asleep either.
He'd waited three days since move-in night. Three days of careful distance—polite nods in the morning, passing the communal coffee synth without comment, letting Kiran and Sofia fill the awkward silences with chatter about classes and zero-G dodgeball tryouts. He'd given her space. Respected the invisible line she'd drawn.
But tonight the line felt thinner. Sharper. Like it might snap if he breathed too hard.
Ethan rolled onto his side, peered over the edge.
Ava sat on the edge of her lower bunk, back to him, elbows on knees, staring at the floor. Hair loose, falling like a dark curtain. She wore the oversized academy sleep shirt—gray, of course—that swallowed her frame. One hand absently traced the burn scar on her knuckle, round and round.
He didn't think. Just moved.
The ladder rungs were cool under his palms. He descended silently, bare feet hitting the deck with barely a sound. Then he sat on the floor in front of her—cross-legged, close enough that their knees almost touched, far enough that she could bolt if she wanted.
Ava didn't look up right away. But she stopped tracing the scar.
"Couldn't sleep?" he asked, voice low.
She exhaled. "Never could, really. Not since the dome collapses. Too quiet here. No mining vibrations. No emergency klaxons every hour."
Ethan nodded. He remembered those nights on Willow Creek—sirens wailing, the ground shaking, kids huddled under tables while adults pretended everything was fine.
"I still hear them sometimes," he admitted. "Phantom tremors. Woke up once in the Core orbital thinking the whole station was coming apart."
Her gaze flicked to his face then. Surprise, quickly masked.
"You never told me that."
"Never told anyone."
Silence settled again. Comfortable this time. Almost.
Ethan leaned back on his hands. "I've been waiting."
"For what?"
"Your second answer."
Ava's brow furrowed. "What?"
"At the spaceport. I asked if you were okay. You said 'save it.' That was your first answer." He met her eyes steadily. "I'm still waiting for the second one. The real one."
She let out a short, humorless laugh. "You think there's layers to 'I'm fine'?"
"I think there's layers to everything with you."
Ava looked away—toward the viewport, stars wheeling indifferently.
"You left," she said finally. Quiet. Flat. "No warning. No goodbye. Just a note under the door like I was some neighbor you owed rent to."
Ethan's chest tightened. "I know."
"My mom cried for a week. Not because she liked you—because she knew how much I did. How much I believed you'd come back."
He winced. Didn't try to defend it. Just listened.
"Then the collapses started getting worse. We lost half the east quadrant. My dad—" She stopped. Swallowed. "He didn't make it out of Shaft 7. I was fourteen. Spent three days digging with my bare hands until they pulled me out. By then the evacuation shuttles were already full. I got on the last one because someone owed my mom a favor."
Ethan felt sick. He'd known about the final collapse—read the reports, seen the holos—but hearing it from her, raw and unfiltered, hit different.
"I tried to find you after," he said. "Hacked the relocation manifests. Your name wasn't on any of them for two years. I thought—"
"You thought I was dead?" Her voice cracked on the last word.
"I thought I'd lost my chance forever."
Ava's eyes glistened. She blinked hard. "I thought the same thing about you. That you'd forgotten. Moved on to fancy schools and important people."
"I never forgot." His voice came out rough. "Not one day."
She searched his face—looking for the lie, the exaggeration, the rich-kid polish.
Found none.
"Then why wait three days to corner me in the middle of the night?" she asked, almost teasing, but the edge was still there.
"Because I'm terrified you'll say no."
"To what?"
"To giving me a chance. A real one. Not the kid version. Not the asteroid version. The now version."
Ava's breath hitched.
Ethan leaned forward—just a fraction. Close enough that she could feel his warmth without touching.
"I'm not asking for forgiveness tonight," he continued. "I'm asking you to answer the question you dodged at the spaceport. Are you okay? Really?"
She stared at him for so long he thought she might not answer.
Then, softly: "No."
The word hung between them like smoke.
"I'm not okay," she whispered. "I'm angry. All the time. At the Alliance for taking too long with the evac. At my dad for going back into Shaft 7. At you for leaving. At myself for still caring that you left."
Ethan didn't interrupt. Just waited.
"And I'm scared," she added, even quieter. "Scared this place will chew me up. Scared I'll never be more than the rim girl with the cheap uniform. Scared that if I let you in again, you'll disappear when your mom gets another promotion."
"I won't."
"You can't promise that."
"I can promise I'll fight like hell not to."
Ava's lips trembled. One tear escaped—tracked down her cheek, caught the amber light like a tiny falling star.
Ethan reached out—slow, giving her every chance to pull away.
She didn't.
His thumb brushed the tear away. Gentle. Reverent.
Ava closed her eyes. Leaned—just barely—into the touch.
"I don't know if I can trust you yet," she murmured.
"I know."
"But…" She opened her eyes. Met his. "I don't want to keep hating you."
Ethan's heart slammed against his ribs.
"That's a start."
She gave a watery half-smile. "It's something."
They sat like that for long minutes—him on the floor, her on the bunk edge, his hand still cupping her cheek, her not pulling away.
Eventually she spoke again. "Second answer: I'm not okay. But maybe… with time… I could be."
Ethan exhaled like he'd been holding his breath for six years.
"That's more than I deserve tonight."
Ava's fingers came up—hesitant—covered his hand on her face.
"Don't push it, Harrington."
He smiled—small, real, victorious in the quietest way.
"Wouldn't dream of it."
She didn't let go right away. Neither did he.
Outside the viewport, the galaxy turned—slow, vast, full of second chances if you were brave enough to reach for them.
Inside the dorm, two kids from a broken asteroid sat in amber light, hands touching, hearts cautiously reopening.
Kiran snorted in his sleep. Sofia shifted.
Ava finally pulled back—slowly, reluctantly.
"Get back in your bunk before someone wakes up and thinks we're having a moment."
"We are having a moment."
"Shut up."
But she was smiling—tiny, real, brighter than the stars.
Ethan climbed back up the ladder. Lay down. Heart still racing.
Down below, Ava curled on her side—facing outward this time. Toward his bunk.
Not away.
He stared at the ceiling constellations until his eyes burned.
Waiting for your second answer had taken six years and three days.
Worth every goddamn second.