"Architect Jalina possesses valuable expertise," I said stiffly. "Her spatial visualization capabilities complement my structuralengineering knowledge. The collaboration is professionally productive."
"Professionally productive," Kex'tar repeated, his tone suggesting those words meant something entirely different. "Is that why you're still here at 2300 hours, seventeen hours into your shift, staring at her sketches like they contain the secrets of the universe?"
"I'm optimizing integration protocols."
"You're captivated."
The word landed like a precisely aimed weapon. Because it was accurate, and because I'd been deliberately avoiding that particular truth since Jalina had left my office four hours ago.
I was captivated.
Not just by her designs, though those were genuinely impressive. Not just by her spatial intuition, though that was remarkable. Not just by her unflinching honesty, though I valued that more than she probably realized.
I was captivated by the way her entire face transformed when she explained her concepts, how her dark eyes lit up with enthusiasm, how her hands moved in quick, decisive gestures that somehow conveyed three-dimensional space through pure expression. The way she adjusted her glasses when she was thinking, a nervous habit that had no practical purpose but that I'd found myself watching for. The way her voice changed when she talked about creating homes instead of storage units as softer, more passionate, carrying a depth of conviction that suggested she understood something fundamental about what it meant tolivethat I'd never adequately grasped.
She was brilliant. And fierce. And so completely certain in her vision that she'd challenged me without apparent fear of the consequences.
And I couldn't stop thinking about her.
"This complicates the project," I said finally, admitting defeat.
Kex'tar's expression softened from teasing to genuine concern. "Does it have to?"
"She's human. I'm Zandovian. The physical differences alone create impossible logistical challenges."
"Er'dox and Dana seem to be managing."
"Er'dox and Dana are—" I stopped, reconsidering. "Different circumstances."
"Different how? Er'dox is three feet taller than Dana. She weighs perhaps a twentieth of his mass. The size disparity is actually greater than yours and Jalina's."
I didn't have a logical response to that. The facts were irrefutable, if Er'dox and Dana could navigate the physical challenges of a cross-species relationship, those same challenges weren't insurmountable for me and Jalina.
Assuming Jalina had any interest, which was far from certain.
"She's here because she has no alternative," I said. "The humans are trapped in our galaxy, dependent on Mothership for survival. Any attraction she might feel could be influenced by gratitude or necessity rather than genuine interest."
"Have you met Architect Jalina?" Kex'tar asked dryly. "She just told you your designs were dehumanizing storage units. That doesn't sound like someone operating from gratitude or necessity. That sounds like someone who speaks her truth regardless of the consequences."
Fair point.
"The professional relationship is critical," I tried instead. "We're co-leading the most important expansion project in Mothership's history. Personal complications could compromise our effectiveness."
"Or they could enhance it. You just spent four hours proving that working with her makes you better at your job." Kex'tar moved toward the door, then paused. "Look, I'm not saying you should pursue this. I'm saying you should stop lying to yourself about why you're really hesitant."
"Which is?"
"You're afraid." He said it matter-of-factly, without judgment. "Terrified, actually. Because for the first time in your life, you've met someone who challenges you, matches you, sees you completely. And that's infinitely more frightening than any engineering problem you've ever solved."
The door slid shut behind him, leaving me alone with the holographic blueprints and a truth I'd been avoiding since the moment Jalina had opened her notebook and shown me everything I'd been missing.
I was afraid.
I'd spent thirty-seven years building a life around work. Design was safe—problems had solutions, challenges had measurable outcomes, success was quantifiable through objective metrics. I understood spaces and systems and the elegant mathematics that transformed raw materials into functional beauty.
I didn't understand whatever this was.
This pull toward a human woman who barely reached my chest. This compulsion to watch her hands move when she sketched, to listen for the shift in her voice when an idea excited her, to notice the way she bit her lower lip when she was thinking through a complex problem. This awareness made me hyperconscious of her presence in ways that had nothing to do with professional collaboration.
