The Observation Deck

The observation deck was a curved cylinder of brushed steel and glass, the only lit room in the skeletal night shift. Beyond the pane, Saturn’s rings were blurring into a smear of pale gold, shaken by the solar storm that had grounded my shuttle for eleven hours. I leaned against the railing, watching the static dance across the gas giant’s equator.

Dev entered from the corridor, wiping grease from his hands with a rag he didn’t intend to use. He was a mountain of a man, all broad shoulders and calloused knuckles, wearing a flight suit gone pale at the knees. His dark hair was cropped short, practical and unpretentious, and there was a smudge of oil on his cheekbone that he’d clearly forgotten to clean. He moved with the heavy, deliberate grace of someone who spent his nights keeping the air breathable and the lights on.

He stopped beside me, offering a thermos of coffee he’d brewed himself. I took it, the heat seeping into my palms. We stood in silence, the hum of the life support systems a low thrum beneath the quiet. The storm meant we were stuck here, together, until the magnetic fields settled. I watched the rings rotate, noting that his presence was steadier than the radio chatter back on Earth. He wasn’t trying to fix the unfixable. He was just there.