I smirk. “A faint glow, seen in the night skyopposite the sun, which is caused by sunlight reflecting off interplanetary dust in the ecliptic plane.”
“Right.” He arches a brow, amusement flickering in his gaze.
“Or.” I move my face closer to his. “Perigalacticon.”
His eyes narrow on my lips.
“It’s the point of closest approach for an object orbiting a galaxy, including another?—”
He slams his mouth on mine.
This time, the kiss is not soft or sweet. It’s bold. Bright. Big. Like Jupiter.
I remember his taste. The incredible flavor that is Ransom.
When we break apart, we’re both breathing hard.
“I want you,” he says on a ragged breath.
“Yes.”
“I don’t want to rush this, though. I…you need time.”
Insecurity, sudden, harsh, collides with my heart. “You…ah...don’t want…to?”
He growls, “Em.” He takes my hand, slides it under his coat, and places it on his erection. I squeeze. “Fuck. Don’t do that. I’ll come in my pants.”
An out-of-control Ransom in bed is a guaranteed good time. I know from experience.
He brings my hand up to his mouth, kisses the palm. “Not now. Be a good girl and keep your hands to yourself.” He holds said hand. “You were telling me about the work you’re doing for your postdoc.”
I pick up my wine and take a nice, long sip. I need it to cool my insides.
“We’re analyzing emissions around a candidate planet in the TRAPPIST-1 system. You know, the one with seven Earth-like planets?”
“Three of which might be in the habitable zone?”
He always impressed me with the breadth of his knowledge.
“Exactly. My lab is using spectrographic data from the James Webb Telescope to examine atmospheric indicators. CO2 levels. Water vapor. Potential biosignatures.”
“And what would that mean? If you find them?”
I take another sip of wine, let the warmth settle. “It would mean we’re not alone. Or at least, that we’re not the only ones with the right recipe for life.”
He leans back beside me, watching the sky. “That must feel…big.”
“It does, because we’re part of something ancient. Something still unfolding.”
We finish the wine and the bread, and the cheese. Altitude makes you hungry.
Then we drink hot chocolate and demolish the macarons, all twelve of them.
Well, you can’t just eat one, can you?
I have eight. He has four.
We talk about ski accidents, and share bad grant funding jokes. He tells me about a young resident whokeeps mistaking the pineal gland for the pituitary, and how it’s driving him nuts.
