Built to Last
Posted on 20 Jan 2026 @ 2:40am by Captain Sabrina Corbin
1,579 words; about a 8 minute read
Mission:
Lathira Shoreleave
Location: Lathira IV - Kestrel Reach
Evening settled over Lathira IV without announcement.
The heat of the day eased gradually, stone releasing warmth in stages, the air cooling just enough to be noticeable when the breeze came in off the water. From the upper terraces of Kestrel Reach, the sea reflected the last of the light in muted bands of copper and blue. The colony did not pause for sunset. It absorbed it. Lights came on as they were needed. Voices drifted and faded. Life continued at a pace that did not require anyone to stop and admire it.
Sabrina noticed all of it.
She noticed because part of her had not fully unclenched since earlier that afternoon. Not tension exactly. Awareness. The kind that remained even when the immediate work had been handled, the directives sent, the first layers set quietly in motion. She had not reread the message. She did not need to. Its shape was already integrated, folded into the back of her thoughts where long-term considerations lived.
Shore leave had not ended.
It had simply changed weight.
Evan walked beside her, hands loose at his sides, stride unhurried in the way of someone who belonged to the place they were moving through. He matched her pace without comment, occasionally angling closer when the path narrowed, his shoulder brushing hers with just enough pressure to register as deliberate.
Not accidental.
She did not step away.
As they climbed higher into Kestrel Reach, the colony revealed itself more fully. This was not the softened edge built for visitors. Habitation tiers stacked closer together here, balconies overlapping, laundry lines strung between railings where evening air carried the faint scent of clean fabric and salt.
Children were present immediately, but they were not the only ones who shaped the space.
An older man sat just outside a doorway, tools spread carefully across a cloth at his feet while a teenager knelt beside him, watching closely as he worked. Further along, a woman with silver-streaked hair leaned on the railing of an upper balcony, speaking quietly to someone below who handed up a basket with practiced ease. On another terrace, three generations shared a table pushed close to the wall, the youngest perched sideways on a chair while an elder corrected her grip on a utensil without breaking the flow of conversation.
No one was isolated.
Households overlapped. Responsibility moved up and down the age line without ceremony. Care flowed both directions.
Sabrina registered it immediately.
This was not a place built around nuclear units that scattered once adulthood arrived. This was a place that kept its people.
“You’re quieter,” Evan said after a few minutes, gaze still forward.
She glanced at him, then back to the path ahead. “Am I?”
“A little,” he replied. “Earlier, you were carrying something. You still are. Just differently.”
She slowed without fully stopping, letting the truth settle before answering. There was no point denying it. He had already read the signs.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Work pressed in today. I haven’t quite managed to set it down.”
The apology was simple. Offered once. No explanation attached.
Evan nodded, accepting it without pressing.
“That tracks,” he said lightly. “Whatever you do, it sounds important enough to follow you on vacation.”
Her mouth curved, brief but genuine. “It has excellent timing.”
They stopped near a low stone wall overlooking the water, the last of the daylight thinning into something softer. Below them, habitation lights came on in uneven patterns, interspersed with darker plots of cultivated land. Beyond that, the sea stretched outward, patient and unremarkable in its constancy.
A child laughed nearby, the sound followed by a calm admonition and then more laughter, redirected rather than stopped. An older voice joined in, the cadence slower but no less engaged.
“You grew up here,” she said, not a question.
He nodded. “Most of us did. Or we’re raising the next ones who will.”
Sabrina watched a family pass below them, the youngest already asleep against someone’s shoulder, an older woman walking alongside with a steadying hand at the elbow. Nearby, another group moved together in an easy cluster, three generations folded into the same unhurried rhythm.
“It shows,” she said quietly. “This place knows who it’s for.”
“It has to,” Evan replied. “Otherwise it doesn’t survive.”
She leaned her forearms against the stone wall, feeling the warmth still held there. Then she glanced at him again, brow creasing faintly.
“I suppose I’m just surprised,” she said. “That you haven’t settled into that, too.”
He considered that, gaze drifting briefly back toward the terraces before returning to her.
“I never felt rushed,” he said. “Most people here don’t. It happens when it fits.”
A pause. Then, with a faint smile:
“For me, it just hasn’t yet.”
She nodded once. Not sympathy. Understanding.
“That makes sense,” she said.
They resumed walking, the path narrowing as they descended toward a communal terrace set back from the main thoroughfare. The scent reached her first. Fish, grilled simply over open heat. Citrus. Something herbal carried on the steam.
The meal was already underway.
Long stone tables stretched beneath a canopy of soft lighting. People sat shoulder to shoulder without concern for arrangement. Elders were given the ends of benches without being asked. Children drifted between seats, stopped occasionally by a hand on a shoulder or a murmured reminder. Plates moved constantly, passed without comment, portions adjusted as needed.
No replicators. No imported indulgences.
Evan guided her to an open space.
“This is where you eat,” he said. “Not where you’re served.”
She appreciated the distinction immediately.
The food was simple and deliberate. White fish grilled over open flame, seasoned with local herbs and citrus grown on the upper slopes. A dense grain cooked slowly, holding warmth. Vegetables roasted until their edges charred slightly, sweetness drawn out rather than masked.
She noticed what was missing.
“No off-world imports,” she said quietly.
“Only what we can’t make or grow,” Evan replied. “Medical. Structural. Food stays local when it can.”
“It forces continuity,” she said. “And adaptation.”
He glanced at her, interest sharpening. “Exactly.”
They ate slowly. Conversation rose and fell naturally, punctuated by pauses that felt earned. At one point, an older woman leaned over to correct Evan on a seasoning choice, tapping the edge of his plate with her fork. He laughed and adjusted without argument. A child immediately tried to steal the corrected portion. Evan shifted the plate closer and murmured something that made the child grin before darting away.
Sabrina watched it all with quiet attention.
This place did not perform stability.
It practiced it.
As the meal thinned into smaller clusters and the light softened further, they stepped away from the tables, hands brushing as they walked. The contact lingered now, subtle but unmistakable. When they stopped near the edge of the terrace overlooking the darkening water, Evan turned toward her fully.
He did not crowd her space. He did not rush. He simply stepped close enough that her attention narrowed to him alone. His hand lifted, hesitated at her side for the barest fraction of a second, then settled lightly at her back.
The kiss was unhurried.
Not deep. Not claiming. Just enough pressure to interrupt the constant forward pull of her thoughts. Enough to anchor her where she stood.
When he pulled back, her eyes were still open.
Her shoulders had lowered. She hadn’t noticed them tense before.
“Better?” he asked quietly.
She considered the word. “Present.”
They walked again, closer now, the space between them altered. Their hands brushed more often. Once, his fingers caught lightly at hers as they navigated a narrow turn. She did not pull away. She did not interlace them either. The contact remained fleeting and intentional.
When the transit platform came into view, Sabrina slowed.
“Thank you,” she said. “For showing me this. I understand the colony better now.”
He smiled faintly. “Most people don’t look long enough to.”
She met his gaze. Let the moment settle.
“Would you take me back?” she asked.
Not abrupt. Not hurried. Simply chosen.
Evan studied her for a beat, something thoughtful passing across his expression.
“I had the impression,” he said slowly, “that you’re very good at looking after yourself.”
“I am,” she replied.
“That wasn’t a warning,” he said. “Just an observation.”
They started forward again, his hand finding her back as naturally as breath. The platform lights glowed steadily against the deepening blue of the evening.
Evan slowed.
“You should know,” he said, practical as ever. “The transport system cycles down soon. If I go back with you, I won’t be able to return until morning.”
She did not hesitate.
“That works for me.”
He searched her face, not for permission, but for certainty. Found it.
“Morning, then,” he said.
She inclined her head slightly, agreement rather than invitation, and stepped forward again. This time, when his hand settled at her back, it stayed there.
She knew this was not meant to last.
The knowledge did not cheapen it. It sharpened it.
Every look held a little longer. Every touch counted. There was no future being promised here, no story written beyond the edge of the night. Just two people choosing, fully and honestly, to occupy the same space for as long as the moment allowed.
And for now, that was enough.
Captain Sabrina June Corbin
Commanding Officer
USS Arawyn
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