Zor'go stood at his holographic workstation, fingers dancing through three-dimensional projections of the expansion sector. He didn't look up. Didn't acknowledge my presence at all, even though the door chime had announced me clearly enough.
"The ventilation calculations for section seven need revision," he said, still not looking at me. "Your courtyard designcreates thermal pockets that will destabilize airflow during shift rotations. I've noted the corrections in the shared project files."
Professional. Distant. Like the past two hours hadn't happened.
Something hot and sharp twisted in my chest—part anger, part hurt, part something that felt dangerously close to heartbreak even though that was ridiculous because you couldn't have your heart broken by someone who'd never actually claimed it in the first place.
I pushed my glasses up my nose, a nervous habit I hated. "We need to talk."
"The thermal pocket issue requires immediate?—"
"About what happened on the bridge."
His fingers stilled in the holographic projection. The crystalline markings along his arms flickered once, rapidly, then went dark. Complete stillness, complete control. He was eight and a half feet of coiled tension pretending to be calm.
"Nothing happened on the bridge," he said finally. "We completed a successful rescue operation. Captain Tor'van commended the team's performance."
"You embraced me."
"A momentary lapse in professional judgment. It won't happen again."
The words were so carefully neutral they felt like a slap. I moved closer, positioning myself where he'd have to look at me unless he physically turned away. The workshop smelled like ozone and metal, familiar scents from our weeks of collaboration, and underneath the earthy and warm that was distinctly Zor'go.
"Why do you keep doing this?" I kept my voice steady even though my hands were shaking. "We work together perfectly. We finish each other's sentences. You know what I'm going to sketch before I put charcoal to paper. And thenthe second things get personal, you retreat behind this wall of 'professionalism' like I'm something dangerous."
"You're not dangerous." His gaze finally met mine, and the intensity there made my breath catch. "The situation is dangerous."
"What situation? Two colleagues who happen to work well together?"
"Two beings from incompatible species developing inappropriate attachment."
The clinical phrasing stung worse than outright rejection. "Inappropriate. Is that what you call what happens when we design together? When we spent three hours yesterday creating that public gathering space and neither of us noticed we'd missed two meals because we were so absorbed in the work?"
"That's professional collaboration."
"That's what you tell yourself." I was getting angry now, frustration bleeding through my usual tendency to avoid conflict. "You tell yourself it's professional when you remember how I take my stimulant beverage. Professional when you adjust the holographic height so I don't have to strain to reach the upper quadrants. Professional when your markings light up every time I walk into a room."
The markings in question flickered traitorously, a rapid cascade of crystalline blue running from his collarbone to his wrists. He noticed, looked down at his arms like they'd betrayed him, and deliberately dimmed them through what had to be sheer force of will.
"Physiological responses aren't indicators of conscious intention."
"Stop." I moved even closer, close enough that I had to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. The size difference between us had never felt quite this pronounced, but I refused to be intimidated. "Stop analyzing and deflecting and hidingbehind technical language. Just answer me honestly: do you feel something for me? Yes or no."
The silence stretched so long I thought he might not answer at all. His ice-blue eyes searched my face, and I watched something like pain flicker across his angular features before he locked it down again.
"What I feel is irrelevant."
"That's not a no."
"Jalina—"
"Answer the question, Zor'go. Do you feel something for me?"
His jaw clenched. One hand flexed at his side, those long precise fingers curling into a fist before deliberately straightening. When he spoke, his voice had dropped to something almost raw beneath its careful control.
"I feel too much. It distracts from duty. From focus. From the work that matters."
The admission hit me square in the chest, stealing my breath for a moment. Not a no. Definitely not a no. The opposite of a no, wrapped in fear and obligation and that damned Zandovian tendency to prioritize function over feeling.
