An Engineer in Safe Mode

Posted on 22 Nov 2025 @ 2:14am by Alura Ryn

1,121 words; about a 6 minute read

// Alura’s Quarters //

Alura sat cross-legged on her bed, stylus tapping absently against her bottom lip as she stared at the half-written page before her. The holo-surf projection washed soft color across her quarters, its rhythm working almost like a heartbeat, steady, gentle, coaxing honesty out of her.

Her handwriting tonight looked different. Less controlled, more looping and hesitant. She wrote about Ryan Collingway.

Again.

She told herself it wasn’t unusual to think about someone after a shared meal. That it was normal to wonder about a person who seemed so tightly wound. But she knew better. This wasn’t casual curiosity. This had weight. And that bothered her.
She wrote about the way he’d sat across from her, rigid shoulders, careful words, trying so hard not to enjoy himself too much. She noted the warmth that flickered in his eyes when he relaxed, then the way he shut it down the instant he realized it.

He carried guilt like other people carried breath.

Alura didn’t understand what wound so tightly inside him.
But she wanted to.

And that was the dangerous part.

Her pen moved across the page in soft, slanted lines. She wrote about her habit of trying to “fix” people, not with tools or therapy techniques, but with presence. With attention. With the belief that if she held someone gently enough, they’d eventually feel safe enough to open. It wasn’t manipulative; it wasn’t even intentional. It was just who she was. The product of a childhood spent in a place that believed happiness wasn’t a resource to hoard, but something to be cultivated and shared.

And yet she knew she could overstep.
That she had, in the past.

She admitted to the diary, because it was the only thing that wouldn’t argue, that her desire to help Ryan was tangled with something more fragile. She felt drawn to him in a way she couldn’t name. Maybe because he didn’t meet her warmth with easy warmth of his own. Maybe because his edges didn’t soften when most people’s did. Maybe because beneath all his caution, she sensed someone kind and hurting and desperately out of practice with being cared about.

Her script tightened for a moment before she paused, letting the silence fill the room. The holo-surf lapped gently against an invisible shore.

Why him?
Why now?

Maybe it was because she saw a light in him that he refused to see in himself. Maybe because every time he stepped back, some tender part of her wanted to step forward. Maybe because she sensed, instinctively, that he was lonely in the way people only became lonely after being hurt.

Or maybe she simply couldn’t resist a puzzle.

She realized she saw him for what he was: an engineer in safe mode, running only the programs that wouldn’t hurt him, shutting down anything that might open him up to connection.

Her pen slowed again. She wrote one final line in smaller, tighter script:
He keeps pushing away. And I keep wanting to understand why I can’t let him.

She closed the diary slowly, fingers lingering on the cover as though waiting for a revelation to rise from the pages. None came.

Only the quiet hum of the ship, and the restless energy in her chest.

Across the room, her morale cart sat half-restocked for tomorrow, quiet, unassuming, waiting.

She wondered, not for the first time, if she created joy for others because she wasn’t quite sure where to put her own.

// Crew Lounge //

The lounge was comfortably busy, voices low and mingling beneath soft dusk-toned lights. The faint scent of citrus and something tropical drifted from the replicator alcove. Alura moved through the space with natural ease, greeting familiar faces, offering quick smiles she didn’t have to think about. Her morale cart sat parked near the door, half-stocked for tomorrow, quiet and diligent even off-duty.

She hadn’t meant to come here. She’d planned to put the cart away, return to her quarters, maybe read. But the restless hum in her chest had nudged her forward, down the corridor, through the doors, toward the easy warmth of other people’s company.

Maybe she needed to be reminded that not everyone was a closed door.

She ordered a synthahol drink: something bright, fruity, layered in pink and orange like a Risan sunset. One sip brought a gentle sigh from her, a moment of uncomplicated sweetness, simple and safe.

“Evening, Ryn.”

She turned to see Security Officer Rafe Harlan leaning against the bar. Broad-shouldered. Confident. The kind of man who settled into any room like he owned the best seat. His smile was all easy charm, no hesitation.

“You here to brighten the place up,” he asked, “or is the recreation director actually taking a break?”

Alura laughed softly. “Believe it or not, I’m off-duty.”

“That’s a shame,” Rafe replied, tilting his head, “because I was about to file a morale complaint if you didn’t come talk to me.”
She shook her head, amused. “I’m pretty sure the Captain would say that’s not a valid use of ship resources.”

“Maybe not,” he said, grin sharpening, “but a guy can try. Speaking of… since you’re off-duty and I’m off-duty—maybe we make that count? Dinner sometime? Or a drink that isn’t replicated?”

He wasn’t subtle.
He wasn’t shy.
He wasn’t guarded.

A stark contrast to the quiet ache still lingering behind her ribs.

She smiled, genuine, warm, grateful, but she felt the tug beneath it. Not rejection. Not disinterest. Just that odd shift inside her, reminding her where her thoughts had been all evening.

“That’s kind of you,” she said gently. “Really. But tonight I think I’m just here for this drink and a little people-watching.”
Rafe lifted his hands in mock surrender. “Can’t argue with a beautiful view. Offer stands, though. I don’t give up that easily.”

She watched him return to his table, leaving behind a ripple of confidence that seemed to follow him wherever he went.
Alura took another sip of her sunset-colored drink, letting the warmth slide down, settling, just barely, the restless swirl inside her.

Someone wanted her attention.
Openly. Easily.

And yet her mind drifted right back to the person who didn’t know what to do with hers.

She sighed softly, leaning her elbows on the bar, glass cradled between her hands. The light inside it glowed faintly against her skin, soft and golden.

Whatever this was… she wasn’t done puzzling it out.
Not even close.

Alura Ryn
MWR Director

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