“Dylan,” I warn. I don’t like the way Conlan can’t quite look at
us—he watches Ellington set up the decon cycle for the airlock,
stares at the ceiling, the floor, anywhere but across the corridor
where we are. I catch Dylan’s hands as they smooth down my hips and
extract myself from his embrace. “Not right now,” I tell him.
He sighs, a sound so forlorn that I want to
kiss him and make it better and I can’t. I just lean against the
wall beside him, my hands folded behind my back, and try my hardest
to ignore his wounded pout. “So,” I say, hoping to disperse the
awkwardness that hangs across the corridor between the two of us
and Conlan. It doesn’t work—he still doesn’t look our way. “Why
didn’t you mention our landing would ruin your water supply?” I
ask. “We didn’t haveto land, if it was going to
inconvenience you…”
Conlan shrugs. “It was a risk I was willing
to take,” he says softly. He’s turned away from me as he watches