Captured by the Yandere Space Pirates

"Listen to me, Pheter. You have to make things right. It's what we do..."

Sound travelled in the dimly look room like a home theater.

Syn lay at the center of Vera's massive red bed, the plush mattress sinking beneath his weight, a thick blanket draped over him like a shroud.

His hazel eyes stared blankly at the wall-mounted screen opposite, its flickering glow casting jagged shadows across the room as it cycled through a loop of recorded TV series and movies—mindless dramas and action flicks he'd seen a dozen times.

No live news, no updates from the solar system, just a curated cage of distraction that cut him off from the outside world. His jaw tightened, a bored scowl tugging at his lips as he gripped the remote, its sleek surface cool against his palm.

With a flick of his wrist, he hurled it at the screen, half-hoping it'd shatter the monotony—but it sailed through the holo-display, a useless projectile that banged against the steel wall behind with a dull 'thunk', clattering to the floor.

The door to the room hissed open, a soft rush of air breaking the stale silence. Cool artificial light spilled in from the hallway, casting long shadows across the metal floor.

A tall figure filled the threshold, moving with effortless confidence. Her blonde hair was pulled back into a swaying ponytail, the strands swaying faintly as she stepped forward. Teal eyes, sharp yet warm, flickered with quiet resolve.

She carried a tray of food—steaming bowls and neatly arranged plates balanced with a co-captain's steady hand. The scent of fresh bread and seasoned broth cut through the metallic tang of the recycled air.

Straight to her, on the wall, a window stretched wide, framing the infinite sprawl of space. The black expanse was endless, broken only by the distant glimmer of stars—cold, blinking beacons against the void. Their faint glow barely touched the room's interior, casting a dim reflection against the glass.

Her gaze flicked to the remote lying abandoned by the wall where a screen played, then to Syn, who ignored her entirely. The moment her boot crossed the threshold, he yanked the blanket over his head, cocooning himself in its dark folds, his breath hot against the fabric as he shut her out.

Aster's lips twitched, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. Undeterred, she stepped inside, her boots barely making a sound against the steel floor.

With a graceful bend, she scooped up the remote, fingers brushing its edge before placing it gently beside Syn on the bed. The tray followed onto a nearby table with a soft clink of ceramic against metal.

Then, without hesitation, she eased onto the mattress beside him.

The bed dipped under her weight as she curled up behind him, her frame broad yet careful. She didn't force her presence on him, didn't pry at the barrier he'd wrapped around himself.

Instead, her arm slid around his waist, resting lightly over the thick blanket, her touch a quiet reminder. Her breath was warm against his ear as she nestled closer, the steady rise and fall of her breathing matching his, a silent promise that she wasn't going anywhere.

"It's been a week, Syn," she murmured, her voice a low rumble, soft but edged with exasperation.

"How long are you gonna keep sulking? You're acting like a kid." She paused and nestled. Her fingers tightened briefly around him, a gentle squeeze as she hummed a sweet, lilting tune—a melody from some forgotten corner of her past, its notes weaving through the quiet like a balm.

She tugged at the blanket covering his face, testing its grip, but Syn held it fast, his knuckles whitening beneath the folds. Aster didn't push, letting her hand fall as she continued to spoon him, her humming fading into a soft silence.

"Holding onto anger is like carrying a blade without a hilt—it only wounds the one who grips it.," she said at last, her voice steady—a quiet echo of wisdom, of lessons learned in harsher days.

She didn't try to move the blanket or force him to face her. Instead, she stayed close, her presence a steady anchor against the storm she knew was raging inside him.

"You told me that once—remember?"

Her breath brushed his ear, her voice dipping into a memory she hoped he'd grasp, a thread from their tangled past. A past where he had been the one steadying her, guiding her through her own storms with words that now felt bitterly ironic in the quiet of this room.

Syn's voice rasped from within the cocoon, muffled but sharp with bitterness. "If I'd known you'd turn into this—cripple me like some animal—I'd never have interfered in your life."

The words cut, a jagged edge honed by a week of pain and isolation, and Aster flinched, a faint sting prickling her chest. But she understood—the ache of his broken ankles, the sting of betrayal—and she let the barb slide, her arm tightening around him in quiet apology.

"On the contrary," she replied, her voice calm, almost teasing, "I think you'd have done the same, no matter what. That's who you are."

Her words hung in the air, a gentle challenge wrapped in certainty, and Syn fell silent, his breath hitching beneath the blanket as her truth settled over him like dust.

A long pause stretched between them, the room's hum filling the void as Aster spooned him, her touch patient, uncoercive. She didn't prod, didn't force the tray of food into his hands—just waited.

Finally, his voice broke the quiet, muffled but resigned. "So, what's for dinner?"

Aster's smirk widened into a smile, a glint of triumph in her teal eyes as she propped herself up on an elbow.

"Oh! I didn't bring anything—just empty cups and plates," she teased, her tone light as she glanced at the tray. She paused, then added, "You keep rejecting meals—food gets wasted. There are starving souls in the backdrop who'd kill for what you toss aside."

Her words were a cheap shot, a cliché straight from a mother's playbook, and she knew it, her smile turning sly.

Syn slid the blanket down slowly, his dark hair tousled, his hazel eyes narrowing as he shot her a flat look. "That was cheap," he muttered, his voice dry, the first crack in his sulky armor.

"So what? It worked," Aster quipped, her chuckle warm as she reached for the tray, lifting the lids with a flourish. A rich, savory aroma spilled into the room—roasted meat, spiced grains, a hint of something sweet—curling through the air like a promise.

"Okay, sit properly," she said, her tone shifting to gentle command as she slid an arm beneath him, helping him up. She propped a pillow against the headboard as a backrest, easing him into place, his legs stretching straight, the blanket pooling around his waist.

"Just give me the tray—I can eat," Syn said, his voice gruff as he reached out, his hands steady despite the faint tremble of hunger. Aster planned on feeding him personally, but she complied, sliding the tray onto his lap, the plates clinking faintly as she settled back beside him, watching with a quiet satisfaction.

The door hissed open again, and Vera stepped in.