Tuk trailed behind Clorita, half-listening as she rattled off some stray remark. But his focus wasn’t on her words. It was on the path itself—each turn, each corridor, each bulkhead and flickering light. He didn’t want to get lost again.

  Not now. Not when the workshop finally felt like somewhere he belonged.

  Inside, the air smelled faintly of old oil and warm circuitry. It was the kind of place where things were always on the edge of either falling apart or coming back to life. Tuk liked that balance.

  And waiting on the table was the fried power supply no one believed in anymore. Except for him.

  When Clorita dropped it in front of him and said, "Good luck," Tuk didn’t answer right away.

  Because he already knew this wasn’t just about fixing a power core.

  This was about fixing something important.

  And maybe proving that he wasn't just the kid they dragged out of the vents.

  Clorita delivered at the workshop and walked on. Tuk lingered in the doorway for a moment, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. The space was quiet except for the low hum of the ship's systems running behind the walls, the occasional soft hiss of an air valve releasing pressure. Somewhere, a panel flickered, casting a faint blue pulse over the tools neatly lined up on the workbench.

  It smelled like warm metal, ozone, and old grease.

  Perfect.

  He walked in slowly, running his lower hands along the edge of the table as if the place might disappear if he wasn’t careful. Here, in this room of forgotten parts and half-finished ideas, he felt like himself—or at least the version of himself he liked best. The kid who could fix things. Make them better. Prove he belonged.

  And the power supply was waiting for him, right in the center of the bench. The one they said was beyond saving. The one Clorita had written off as scrap.

  He sat down, four arms working in quiet rhythm as he opened it up, piece by delicate piece. Tools clicked softly on the tabletop. The occasional HALAT snapped in the air, casting quick flashes of light across the walls. The only audience was the ship itself, breathing steadily around him.

  It took hours. Maybe more. Time blurred in the rhythm of work. The ship outside kept on gliding through space, but in here?

  In here, this was the whole universe.

  And when it was done, when the last capacitor was seated and the connections gleamed under the glow of the overhead lamp, he couldn't just leave it bare.

  So, he built the box.

  Laser-resistant plating, curved just right. Smoothed edges, polished to a soft red sheen.

  A heart.

  Maybe it was a joke. Maybe it was the stupidest thing he'd ever done. But as he snapped the core into place inside the heart-shaped casing, he thought, yeah. Yeah, this is exactly right.

  For her.

  Hours had passed when Clorita came in...

  She leaned against the doorway, watching him with arms crossed.

  “You actually fixed it?”

  Tuk shrugged, trying not to look too proud. “Yeah. And... uh... upgraded it.”

  She walked closer, pausing when she saw the shape.

  “A heart?”

  Tuk cleared his throat, fiddling with the corner of the table, turning into a mild shade of crimson. “Seemed... appropriate.”

  For a moment, Clorita didn’t say anything. Just stood there, optics reflecting the soft glow of the core pulsing from inside its casing.

  Then she snorted, shaking her head with a grin.

  “You’re a damn sap, you know that?”

  “Yeah,” Tuk muttered, pretending to reorganise his tools so she wouldn’t see him smile.

  And for just a second, the workshop felt warmer. Like home.

  Clorita carefully picked up the heart-shaped core, turning it over in her hands. The plating caught the workshop lights in a soft glow, pulling faintly, like it really was alive.

  "You know," she said, voice a little quieter than usual, "if you were trying to impress me, mission accomplished."

  Tuk shrugged again, not trusting himself to say much.

  "Figured you deserved better than what you got stuck with."

  She tapped the casing, smirking.

  "You do realise that if this thing fries me mid-fight, I'm haunting you, right?"

  Tuk grinned.

  "Yeah. You and about ten thousand volts."

  Behind them, the door hissed open, and HALAT stepped in, her gaze flicking from Clorita to Tuk, then down to the heart in Clorita's hands.

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  "Visual analysis: Excessive sentimentality detected," HALAT deadpanned. "However, the efficiency of design is acceptable."

  Clorita snorted.

  "Don't get all misty on me, Spark."

  HALAT tilted her head. "Misting is not within my operational parameters."

  BOB’s voice joined in from the comm overhead, smooth and smug as always. "Logging new workshop rule: No unauthorised emotional moments without prior clearance."

  "Yeah, yeah," Clorita muttered, still staring at the heart. "Stick it in the manual."

  Tuk leaned back in his chair, watching as HALAT and Clorita started debating the next steps. His arms rested across his chest, the weight of the night’s work finally hitting him, but in the best way possible.

  He didn't feel like a stowaway for the first time in a long time.

  He felt like crew.

  Maybe even like family.

  Luma padded silently into the room, leaping up onto the bench beside him with a soft chirp, curling herself into a ball.

  "Yeah," Tuk whispered to her, giving the cat a gentle scratch behind the ears.

  Luma purred softly as if to say, " Yeah, kid. You belong here.

  His gaze drifted back to the heart-shaped core on the workbench.

  The thing he’d fixed. The thing he’d carefully rebuilt from scrap, wrapped in the best armor he could give it.

  It was supposed to help her.

  Make her stronger.

  But now, looking at it…

  It didn’t feel like a power supply anymore.

  It felt like a switch. One wrong connection, and she wouldn’t be Clorita anymore. Wouldn’t remember what she’d lost. Wouldn’t remember who she was.

  His hands moved before he could think. He snatched the core off the bench and shoved it into a storage drawer. The panel snapped shut with a sharp hiss.

  Clorita blinked at him. “Uh. What are you doing?”

  Tuk planted all four hands on the drawer as if guarding it from her.

  “You’re not installing it.”

  Clorita raised an eyebrow. “Oh? And since when do you get to decide that?”

  “Yes.” Tuk’s voice came out firmer than he expected.

  She smirked. “That’s adorable, kid, but—”

  Tuk turned, arms crossed, glare set.

  “You just told me you lost days. You lost a whole battle. You lost yourself. And you seriously think I’m just gonna stand here and let you gamble with that again?”

  Clorita leaned back against the workbench, watching him. The smirk softened just a little.

  Well, look at you. All protective.

  Tuk’s jaw tightened. “I mean it.”

  For a beat, she didn’t argue.

  Didn’t tease.

  She just looked at him.

  Then Clorita sighed, folding her arms behind her head. She stared up at the workshop ceiling like the universe itself was getting heavy.

  “…Fine,” she said at last. “I won’t install it. Yet.”

  Tuk exhaled, shoulders finally unclenching.

  “Good.”

  Clorita let her head tilt back, again staring at the ceiling like she was thinking too hard about something. Just for a second. Then the grin snapped back into place like it had never left.

  “But,” she added, pointing a finger at him, “you are absolutely helping me test it. You built the thing, genius. Let’s see if it’s actually as good as you think.”

  Tuk huffed, trying to hide the way his cheeks warmed.

  “Fine,”

  Clorita smirked. “Good.”

  She didn’t say it out loud—she wouldn’t. That wasn’t her style.

  But this was the first time in a long while that someone had cared enough to stop her from risking herself.

  And maybe... yeah.

  That felt nice.

  Weird.

  But nice.

  For now, the heart-shaped core stayed in the drawer.

  Waiting.

  Days later, the workshop buzzed softly as the core came back online, cradled in the diagnostic frame, its soft glow reflecting off the walls.

  Tuk worked at the console, monitoring the readouts as HALAT stood at his shoulder, pointing out data with practiced precision.

  "Stability confirmed," HALAT noted. "Output exceeding previous specifications. Efficiency at 142% over baseline."

  Tuk sat back slightly, watching the numbers hold steady. The core pulsed, strong and steady.

  Clorita leaned against the wall, arms folded. "So... you’re telling me the kid built me a heart better than the one I was born with?"

  "Affirmative," HALAT said. "Though I question the design choice of... sentimental shapes."

  Clorita smirked. "Yeah, well, I’m starting to question how I raised you."

  HALAT tilted her head. "Mother, please. I was assembled, not raised."

  BOB cut in from the comm, dry as ever. "This is what happens when you let family dynamics into the diagnostic room."

  Tuk just kept working, pretending not to hear, but secretly...

  He liked it here.

  This felt like belonging.

  Even with the chaos.

  Maybe especially with the chaos.

  But testing wasn’t enough.

  Not for Tuk.

  So over the next few cycles, when the ship was quiet and the rest of the crew drifted back into their routines, he and HALAT stayed behind, secretly improving the heart even further.

  She provided the blueprints—schematics from the Repository archives, designs that barely looked possible, tech that was centuries ahead of what the Duj was supposed to handle.

  Tuk brought it to life.

  Wire by wire. Bolt by bolt.

  The heart became more than it was.

  Stronger. Smarter. Faster.

  And by the time they were finished, it wasn’t just an upgrade.

  It was a masterpiece.

  A core worthy of Clorita.

  Locked away in the drawer. Waiting.

  Ready.