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After an hour or so of barreling through the galaxy in hyperspace, Din pulls the Razor Crest back, letting it coast through the stars at a more relaxed speed. At the sudden change in momentum, Zoya jerks awake where she's curled in her seat, blinking hazily at the backdrop of stars hung in place outside the window.
Din glances back over his shoulder, eyes catching on the slumbering child, cocooned warmly in his makeshift seat. He should be fine. Standing, he stretches his arms out in front of him, rolling his head to the side before turning back to look at Zoya. "Want to come with me for a minute?" he asks softly, as to not awaken the child.
Her eyes flick to his visor. Apprehension swells in her stomach. "Um, the child—"
"He'll be fine."
"Oh. Okay."
Zoya swallows her nerves and unfolds her legs as he passes, moving to follow him with one last desperate look towards the child, who dozes away, unaware of the turmoil in her stomach. The moment passes, and she follows Din down the hallway, silence lying thick between them until they reach the ladder. He descends first, dropping down into the belly of the ship without saying a word to her.
Are we really going to talk about this?
Zoya climbs down the ladder instead of jumping, palms slick against the cool metal bars. When her boots hit the floor, Din's standing with his back to her, fiddling with something on the slim table pressed against the wall.
"So," she begins, hating how her voice cracks on the word, betraying the taut line of tension that her body has become, "what's going—"
"Sit down," he says.
Zoya blinks. "Well, since you asked so nicely."
Din turns, and there's a pair of silver scissors gleaming in his gloved hands. "Sorry. I meant to say please."
"Uh-huh," she says slowly, easing herself down, eyes locked on the scissors. "What are those for, may I ask?"
"You asked me to cut your hair, didn't you?" he asks. When she doesn't respond right away, he fiddles with the handles, glancing down. "And I thought we could do that before they get all bloody."
