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Dux turns toward the canopy, where faint movement shifts beyond the dust haze. His posture tightens, attention sharpening. “They are not giving us thirty-two minutes.”

“They are not consulted.”

He glances back at me, a flicker of reluctant respect in his expression. “Rude of you.”

“They damaged my ship.”

“So did the asteroid.”

“I am also angry at the asteroid.”

That earns a low, strained laugh from him before his hand presses against his side again.

I notice.

I should not.

“You need another patch,” I say, already moving toward the medkit.

He straightens slightly, watching me approach. “I need a lot of things.”

“You are getting medical care.”

His eyes narrow slightly, studying my face. “Is this concern?”

“This is inventory preservation,” I reply, pulling back the damaged armor.

“Of your only combat specialist?”

“Of my only useful liability.”

“You keep refining the insult.”

“Do not become sentimental.”

“Too late,” he murmurs.

I peel away the old patch. Blood wells immediately. He inhales sharply, his shoulders tightening for a fraction of a second before he forces himself still.

“That hurt,” he says.

“Yes.”

“No apology?”

“I did not design your nervous system.”

“You wound me emotionally.”

“I am treating you physically.”

I spray sealant across the wound. He exhales through clenched teeth, the tension visible in the way his hand grips the edge of the hatch.

“Selective service,” he mutters.

I press the new patch into place and hold it until the seal bonds. His skin is hot beneath the glove, the heat radiating through the material.

Then I step back.