Overton nodded again and grabbed his rifle off the table. “See you in the morning, doctors,” he said with uncharacteristic softness, his voice fading as he turned and headed to retrieve bedding and a pillow from the personnel quarters.

Emanuel grabbed Sophie’s hand and twined his fingers with hers. He pulled her close, wrapping his other arm around her waist. “Promise me something,” he whispered into her ear.

She studied his restless eyes. “I’m not sure we live in a world where I can promise anything anymore, Emanuel.”

“I know Saafi’s death is hard for you to accept. It’s hard for me, too. So is the loss of the mission and the trip to Mars. I know this is all so much to bear, but promise me you won’t give up,” he said. “Promise me you won’t give up on the team’s survival. Or on us.”

Sophie tilted her head back, a smile playing on her lips. She hadn’t expected to hear him use the word us ever again.

“I won’t,” she said, relaxing into his arms. A sense of relief washed over her body. It wasn’t just a feeling of temporary safety, though. It was something deeper—something more intense.

It was love.

Sophie stirred, trying to stretch her legs. The beds had specifically been designed for one person, and she was forced to literally wrap herself around Emanuel. It wouldn’t be such a bad thing, if she had actually been able to sleep. She eyed the clock.

11:18 p.m.

With a sigh she pulled one leg off Emanuel and swung it over the side of the bed. The instant her toes touched the cold floor, the chill sent a shiver up her spine. She wanted to stay with Emanuel, wrapped up in the warmth of their bed. But there was work to do.

Darkness blanketed the room. The red glow from the clock’s display was the only guide for her tired eyes. She rubbed the sleep out of them and stood. It was deathly silent, and she was tempted to wake Emanuel to have some company. But even through the darkness, she could tell he was deep in REM sleep. If anyone needed it, he did.

A silent growl from her stomach reminded her she had gone to bed without much of a dinner. She grabbed her headset and, like a zombie, lurched forward, stumbling toward the automatic door.

By the time she got to the kitchen, her eyes had started to adjust to the darkness. The vague outlines of two figures appeared as she walked into the mess hall. She assumed the lump wrapped in blankets on the floor was Bouma and the figure sitting on a bench staring at her was Overton.

She was right; Overton’s rough voice sliced through the silence. “Everything okay?”