Mira’s room smells like citrus and steel polish and the ghost of lavender balm she pretends she doesn’t use.
I shut the door before I can think better of it.
If I don’t, I’ll walk out before the panic settles again and go pretend I’m fine in a hallway where someone can see me unravel.
She’s sitting cross-legged on her bunk, paperwork strewn around her like a crime scene—training logs, field notes, ration audits she keeps because trusting supply clerks isn’t her religion.
Her gaze lifts the second she clocks my face.
“Shut the door,” she says.
“It’s already shut.”
“Good. Sit before you fall.”
I glare, but my legs betray me and I drop beside her, elbows braced on my knees. My hands won’t stop shaking.
She doesn’t touch me yet. Mira doesn’t do pity. She does proximity.
“You look lik
