I dreaded breakfast with Captain Archer today—I've hardly slept a wink, although I'd never admit it. My guts twist whenever I'm alone with him: those green eyes watching me, piercing my soul, probing the places in which I hide.

On the hull, he wouldn't let me die—still, I died a thousand deaths as he stripped off my armour, laying bare my self: my shame.

Now we're safe. Everyone's fussing around and I can't see him anymore. I'm scared.

Behind me, a strong body moves: supporting; enfolding; protecting.

"Malcolm, I'm here. I'll never let you go."

I feel safe.