"You think feeling something for me makes you weaker," I said slowly, understanding clicking into place. "You think caring about me compromises your ability to do your job."
"I think," he said carefully, "that I have responsibilities to this ship and its crew that supersede personal desires. I think that my role requires absolute clarity of purpose, and emotional entanglement creates complications that could prove catastrophic. I think?—"
"You think you have to be perfect. Untouchable. Some kind of ideal Zandovian who never wants anything for himself." I shook my head, feeling my hair slip from its attempt at a bun. "That's not strength, Zor'go. That's just fear."
His markings flared bright before he could suppress them. "You don't understand?—"
"Then help me understand. Explain why letting yourself feel something is so terrifying that you'd rather push me away than risk it."
"Because I've seen what happens when duty becomes secondary to personal attachment." The words came out harsh, almost angry. "My uncle served on a cargo vessel. He had a bonded partner on crew. When pirates attacked, when critical decisions needed to be made, his judgment was compromised by his desperation to protect her specifically rather than the ship generally. Forty-seven beings died because he prioritized one person over the collective good."
The pain in his voice was old, deep. I wanted to touch him, offer comfort, but sensed he needed to finish.
"I swore when I took this position that I would never allow personal considerations to compromise my effectiveness. That every decision would serve the greater good of Mothership and its inhabitants. And then you..." He trailed off, those ice-blue eyes searching my face with something like desperation. "You sketch these impossible visions and somehow make them functional. You see beauty in spaces I designed for pure utility. You adjust your glasses when you're thinking and bite your lip when you're concentrating and your entire face lights up when a concept clicks into place and I?—"
He stopped himself, physically turning away, shoulders rigid with tension.
"I catch myself watching you instead of working," he finished quietly. "I find excuses to extend our meetings. I redesign calculations just to have reason to consult with you. My focus, my discipline, everything I've built my reputation on, it's compromised. By you. Because of you."
The confession left me reeling. This wasn't rejection. This was someone drowning in feelings they'd been taught to mistrust, someone so convinced that caring made them dangerous they'd rather cut themselves off than risk it.
I moved around to face him again, refusing to let him hide. "Zor'go, look at me."
He did, reluctantly, and the vulnerability in his expression made my throat tight.
"What if," I said carefully, "feeling something isn't a distraction? What if it makes the work better?"
"That's not?—"
"Think about our project. Really think about it." I gestured at the holographic designs surrounding us. "We create better together because we trust each other. Because I know you'll catch my impractical ideas and ground them in reality, and you trust me to push you past pure function into something that actually nurtures the beings who'll live there. That trust, that collaboration existsbecausewe care about each other, not despite it."
His markings flickered uncertainly, a visual representation of his internal struggle.
"You want a practical argument?" I pressed on. "Fine. The courtyard that saved the cargo ship calculations today, the one with thethermal pocketyou're suddenly criticizing. I designed that three weeks ago. You approved it. You said it was brilliant. The only thing that's changed is your fear that caring about me makes you incompetent. But you're not incompetent, Zor'go. You're the most dedicated, brilliant planner I've ever worked with. And you were that person when you lifted me off the ground on the bridge. You were that person when your markings lit up because you were happy we succeeded together. You were that person when you looked at me like?—"
I stopped, suddenly uncertain. Like what? Like I mattered? Like I was something precious?
"Like you wanted to kiss me," I finished quietly.
The silence that followed felt charged, electric. Zor'go's markings had gone completely still, but his eyes. Those ice-blue eyes that usually held such controlled focus were anything but controlled now.
"I did want to kiss you," he said finally, and the admission was so quiet I almost didn't hear it. "I do want to kiss you. I want—" He stopped himself, struggling visibly with whatever he'd been about to say. "But wanting isn't sufficient justification."
"Why not?"
"Because—" He gestured helplessly at himself, at me, at the vast difference in our sizes. "Look at us, Jalina. I'm eight and a half feet tall. My hand could span your entire back. The size difference alone presents physical complications that?—"
"So we'd have to be careful. So what?" I was smiling now, couldn't help it, because he was arguing about logistics instead of feelings and that meant the feelings themselves were no longer in question. "You're the most precise being I've ever met. You calculate load distributions and stress tolerances for massive structures. You're telling me you can't figure out how to kiss someone smaller than you without causing injury?"
His markings flickered rapidly, and something that might have been humor touched his expression before he suppressed it. "That's not the point."
"Then what is the point? Because from where I'm standing, it seems like you're manufacturing obstacles to avoid admitting you care about me."
"I'm not—" He stopped, took a breath, and when he spoke again his voice had lost its defensive edge. "I don't know how to do this. Relationships, attachment, allowing myself to want something beyond duty and work. I don't have a template.No calculations that guarantee a successful outcome. And the possibility of failure, of hurting you or compromising my effectiveness or?—"
"Zor'go." I reached out slowly, giving him time to retreat, and placed my hand on his forearm. His skin was warm under my palm, and I felt his markings flicker in response to the touch. "Nobody has a template. Nobody has guaranteed outcomes. That's what makes it worth doing. Because it's real and messy and uncertain, and we figure it out together as we go."
He stared down at my hand on his arm like he'd never seen such a thing before. "What if I fail? What if I hurt you without meaning to, or my obligations to Mothership create conflict, or?—"
