A Clean Departure

Posted on 22 Jan 2026 @ 1:54am by Captain Sabrina Corbin

1,302 words; about a 7 minute read

Mission: Lathira Shoreleave
Location: Lathira IV - Tide Gardens

The power went out sometime after midnight.

It was their second night together.

Not all at once. The fans fell silent first, the low hum that had been constant since sunset cutting away so cleanly that the silence woke her. The lights dimmed, flared once, then died. Beyond the open windows, the settlement dropped into a deeper quiet. Infrastructure lights along the terraces blinked out in uneven sequence until the night belonged fully to the stars.

Sabrina lay still, listening.

Beside her, Evan shifted. His arm tightened around her waist, confirming she was still there. His breath hitched before he spoke.

“Looks like the grid finally gave up,” he murmured.

She turned her head slightly, her voice a low vibration in the dark. “Happens often?”

He made a soft, almost amused sound. “Often enough. Something jams. Someone fixes the wrong thing first. It comes back.”

The room grew heavy without the fans, the air thick with salt and heat held by stone and glass. Sabrina rolled onto her side to face him. In the dark, his outline was familiar now in a way that surprised her. The slope of his shoulder. The faint scar at his collarbone she had traced earlier without asking. For a heartbeat, she wondered what it would be like to see that scar every morning, not as a memory of a leave, but as a fixture of a life.

She rested her hand against his chest. His heart was steady.

After a moment, he said, “You leave tomorrow.”

“Yes.”

Not a question. Not an accusation. Just a statement laid gently between them.

She nodded, though he could not see it. “Early.”

Another pause. Longer this time.

“And after that?” he asked.

There it was. Not dressed up. Not pushed forward. Simply placed.

Sabrina did not answer immediately. She stared past him toward the open window, where the sky spilled in unbroken by artificial light. There was nothing visible above the horizon. No station. No traffic. And yet she felt it all the same, the phantom weight of the Arawyn in orbit. The quiet certainty of a ship that would not follow her down here.
“I go back to work,” she said at last.

He was quiet. She could feel him thinking; he always did that first.

“That isn’t what I meant,” he said gently.

“I know.”

Her fingers curled slightly against his skin. Not clinging. Just present. She thought of the "long arcs" other people lived, the slow build of a home, the settling of dust. It felt like a language she could read but couldn't speak.

She turned her face toward his, close enough to feel the warmth of his skin. When she spoke again, her voice was level. Unvarnished.

“I don’t do long arcs,” she said. “I don’t build toward things. I pass through. I leave before things settle enough to demand permanence.”

He did not interrupt her. She appreciated that.

“My life works because it stays in motion,” she continued. “Because I know where I am needed next. I am very good at being precise with my attention and very careful with my attachments.” She exhaled slowly. “I am not built for what comes after the leave ends.”

Evan shifted to face her fully. In the dark, his hand came up to her jaw, his thumb resting there without pressure.
“That doesn’t sound like nothing,” he said.

“No,” she agreed, the word catching in her throat. “It isn’t.”

Another quiet stretch settled between them. Outside, a breeze moved through the palms, leaves whispering together. Somewhere down the slope, a door closed. Life continuing, even without lights to announce it.

“I’m not asking you to be someone else,” he said.

“I know.”

“I’m not asking you to stay.”

“I know that, too.”

She leaned in, resting her forehead against his. The closeness was deliberate. Chosen.

“This,” she said softly, “was never meant to be more than it is.”

“And what is it?”

She considered that, honestly. “A moment that mattered,” she said. “One I won’t pretend didn’t.”

He nodded, the movement barely perceptible, and pressed a kiss to her temple. Not claiming. Not pleading.

“That’s enough,” he said after a beat. “I think.”

At some point later, the backup systems engaged with a sharp hum. A few lights returned, dim and uneven, cutting through the sanctuary of the dark. The world didn't come fully back online, but it steadied itself. The intrusion of the light felt like a countdown.

She did not track the timing.

Morning came unevenly.

The power returned in pieces. Lights along the terraces blinked back to life in staggered rows, as if the settlement itself needed a moment to remember how it functioned.

Sabrina woke before the alarm she did not need. She lay still, Evan’s arm heavy across her. The weight was grounding in a way she did not allow herself to name. Outside, the sky was already pale, the color of salt. She knew she should shower, should rinse the night away and put on the uniform that waited in her bag. She did not move yet.

She shifted carefully. Evan stirred, eyes opening as if he had not truly been asleep.

“Morning,” he said, his voice rough.

“Mm.”

They dressed side by side, close enough to brush hands, far enough not to pretend this was routine. She pulled on light civilian clothing, no jacket, no armor. Evan watched her with an expression she had come to recognize: awareness, without expectation.

“You heading out early?” he asked.

“Yes. After a cup of coffee.”

He nodded. “I’ll walk you.”

The path toward the lower terraces was already awake. The scent of bread and citrus drifted up from the cafes. The outage had already softened into background conversation.

“Lift stalled for nearly an hour,” someone complained as they passed.

Sabrina kept her gaze forward. They walked in companionable quiet, their pace unhurried. The café sat at the edge of the water, its glass frontage catching the early light.

Evan slowed as they reached the steps. “So,” he said. “This is where I turn back.”

She stopped and turned to face him fully. “Yes.”

He studied her for a moment, then smiled, small and real. “You never did tell me what you actually do.”

She returned the smile, faint but genuine. “I told you enough.”

“Starfleet,” he said. Not a question.

“Yes.”

He considered that, then nodded. “Figures.”

She waited. If he was going to ask for a subspace frequency or a promise to return, he would do it now. He did not. Instead, he stepped closer. His hands rested lightly at her hips, familiar without claiming.

“I’m glad it was you,” he said.

Sabrina held his gaze. She understood what he meant. Timing. Circumstance. A moment that didn't ask to be a lifetime.

“So am I.”

He kissed her once. Gentle. The kind of kiss that ended where it began. When he pulled back, his forehead rested briefly against hers.

“Take care of your ship,” he said.

She did not correct the assumption that the ship was hers. In every way that mattered, it was. “I always do.”

He stepped away first. That mattered.

Sabrina watched him turn back up the path, rejoining the rhythm of the colony. She didn't follow him with her eyes for long. The Arawyn waited for her in the cold vacuum above with quiet, mechanical certainty. It always had. It always would. It was a connection stronger than any one man, and lonelier for it.

She did not resent that. She accepted it.

She turned toward the café. The bell chimed softly as she stepped inside, the sound of the world resuming.

Captain Sabrina June Corbin
Commanding Officer
USS Arawyn

 

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