The Razor Crest smells of recycled air, stale caf, and something metallic — beskar, maybe, or the oil from his blaster. It’s not unpleasant. It’s simply his.

She’s cuffed to the copilot’s chair. The durasteel bites into her wrists, cold and unyielding. The gray dress she was made to wear — a high-necked, stiff thing with a silver harness across the bodice — feels like a cage of its own. The silver ruffles along the skirt catch the dim light. She looks almost regal, trapped here. Almost.

He’s in the pilot’s seat, a few feet away. The dark chrome of his helmet catches the reflection of the control panel, the T-visor fixed forward. He hasn’t spoken in hours. Not since he hauled her up the ramp, her teeth still bared, the taste of his glove — bare hand, curse him — still sharp on her tongue.

The silence stretches. The engines hum. The stars bleed past.