He paused, seeming to be choosing words with the same careful attention he applied to system diagnostics. "Then you arrived. Brilliant and terrified and determined to prove yourself despite having every reason to give up. You caught variance I'd missed, solved problems I'd considered impossible, saw patterns that shouldn't exist. You made me better at my job by making me question every assumption I'd built my career on."
"That sounds professionally exhausting."
"That sounds professionally exhilarating." His hands moved to take mine, the size difference even more obvious when our fingers intertwined. "You challenge me. You inspire me. You make me want to be worthy of your trust. And somewherein the past six months, professional respect became personal attachment became something I don't have adequate words for in any language."
"Love," I said quietly. "The word you're looking for is love."
"Is that what this is?" He said it seriously, like he genuinely didn't know, like a brilliant engineer who understood quantum physics and exotic energy sources couldn't quite grasp the mathematics of emotion.
"That's what this is." I squeezed his hands, feeling the careful pressure of his response. "At least, that's what it is for me. Love that's terrifying and liberating and feels like finding home in the last place I expected to look for it."
Er'dox pulled me closer, careful as always of the strength difference, the size disparity, the thousand small ways our bodies didn't quite fit together. Except they did fit. We'd learned each other over six months of working side by side—learned the rhythms of conversation and silence, learned the boundaries of touch and space, learned how to build something impossible from fundamental incompatibility.
"Then we should probably proceed with the ceremony," he said against my hair. "Before you overthink yourself into another crisis."
"I don't overthink. I process comprehensively."
"Same thing, different words."
We stood in the memorial garden for another few minutes, surrounded by impossible plants and the names of the dead who'd never see what their sacrifice built. Then I pulled back, straightened my uniform—modified for the ceremony with details that honored both human and Zandovian tradition—and tried to look like someone who wasn't about to commit to permanent partnership with an alien in front of eighty-three witnesses.
"Ready?" Er'dox asked.
"Absolutely not. Let's do this anyway."
The ceremony took place in Mothership's largest observation deck, where floor-to-ceiling windows showed the star field beyond our current position. Eighty-three beings filled the space with humans and Zandovians and half a dozen other species I'd learned to recognize over six months of integration.
Jalina and Zor'go stood together near the front. Bea and Zorn flanked them. Elena and Vaxon stood slightly apart from the other couples. Alex Bail sat with the other Liberty survivors, thirteen humans now, after we'd found three more scattered across the sector in various states of survival. Sarah Kim sat beside him, still under security supervision but increasingly integrated into legitimate operations. She caught my eye, nodded once, acknowledgment that we'd both made different choices from impossible situations, both found ways to survive that looked nothing like what we'd expected.
Captain Tor'van stood at the center of the observation deck, his scarred face and cybernetic eye giving him authority that needed no announcement. He'd agreed to perform the ceremony, unusual for a ship's captain but appropriate given the precedent-setting nature of human-Zandovian bonding.
Er'dox stood beside Tor'van, looking impossibly tall and formal in his ceremonial uniform. When I entered, his amber eyes found me immediately, tracking my movement through the assembled crowd with intensity that made my heart rate spike.
I took my position beside him, felt his presence even before we touched.
"We gather," Tor'van began, his voice carrying across the observation deck with practiced authority, "to witness the bonding of Chief Engineer Er'dox and Engineer Dana Reeves. This ceremony integrates traditions from two civilizations,Zandovian commitment protocols and human partnership customs, creating something new from combined heritage."
The words washed over me, familiar from rehearsals but carrying different weight now that eighty-three beings watched us make promises that couldn't be taken back.
"Er'dox," Tor'van said. "Your vows."
Er'dox turned to face me fully, took my hands in his with careful precision. "Dana. Six months ago, you arrived on Mothership as a refugee with nothing but determination and engineering knowledge. Today, you stand as an essential member of my department, a valued colleague to our crew, and person I choose to build my future with."
He paused, seemed to be accessing words he'd carefully prepared. "I promise to challenge you as you challenge me. To support your growth as an engineer and as a being. To respect your boundaries while encouraging you to exceed them. To recognize your humanity while accepting your integration into Zandovian culture. To build a partnership that honors both our origins and our chosen future."
The vows were technically precise, emotionally careful, exactly what I'd expect from someone who approached life like engineering problems requiring optimal solutions.
They were perfect.
"Dana," Tor'van prompted. "Your response."
I'd prepared vows. Rehearsed them. Practiced until the words felt natural. But standing there, hands held by an alien who'd become home, surrounded by beings from dozens of worlds who'd become family, everything I'd planned felt insufficient.
"Er'dox." His name, foreign syllables that had become familiar. "Six months ago, I was surviving. Just keeping myself and fifteen others alive through desperation and stubbornness. You saw past that survival mode to the engineer underneath.You gave me challenges instead of pity. Standards instead of accommodation. The expectation that I'd excel rather than simply cope."
I squeezed his hands, feeling the careful pressure of his response. "You made me want to be extraordinary. Want to prove that disaster could transform into opportunity. Want to build something permanent from cosmic accident. And somewhere in that process, you became the reason I stopped waiting for rescue and started building home."
I took a breath, steadied my voice. "I promise to bring human perspective to Zandovian problems. To question your assumptions while respecting your expertise. To challenge your methods while learning from your experience. To build a partnership that's stronger for our differences rather than weakened by them. To make this work even when it shouldn't be possible."
