"I'm not terrified."
"Then what's the problem? You clearly have feelings for her. Unless I'm misreading the situation and you touch your face forty-seven times after every professional interaction."
I closed the display. Kex'tar wouldn't leave until I engaged properly, and prolonging this conversation would only give him more ammunition for future teasing.
"It's complicated," I said finally.
"Elaborate."
"She's human. I'm Zandovian. The physiological differences alone present significant challenges."
"Er'dox and Dana managed."
"They're engineers. They approach problems systematically." I stood, paced to the viewport overlooking the void. Stars streaked past in warped ribbons of light. We were still traveling at high velocity toward our next rescue coordinates. "I'm a city planner. I design structures meant to last generations. I think in permanence and foundation. What if what I'm feeling is just a temporary configuration? An unstable variable that will cause structural failure?"
Kex'tar was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice had lost its teasing edge. "You're afraid you'll hurt her."
"I'm afraid I'll disappoint her." The confession felt like exposing a critical design flaw. "She's an optimist, Kex'tar. She sees potential and beauty in everything. She looked at my sterile habitat designs and saw homes. She looked atMothership's efficient corridors and saw opportunities for art." I pressed one hand against the viewport, watching my reflection superimposed against the stellar blur. "What happens when she looks at me and realizes I'm just... exactly what I appear to be? Someone who thinks in numbers and flow charts? Someone who can't see beauty without quantifying it?"
"Is that really what worries you?"
I turned to face him. "What do you mean?"
"I mean maybe you're afraid she'll see exactly who you are as someone brilliant and dedicated and surprisingly gentle despite his size, and decide that's enough. That you're enough. Without the numbers and flow charts to hide behind." Kex'tar stood, moved to stand beside me at the viewport. "You've spent your entire career designing spaces for others to inhabit. When was the last time you let yourself actually occupy one? When did you last feel at home instead of just creating homes?"
The question struck deeper than I'd expected. I'd grown up in a prestigious family on Garmuth'e, surrounded by accomplished city planners who viewed emotional expression as inefficiency. My father had once told me that feelings were variables to be controlled, not indulged. My mother had been warmer, but even she'd emphasized that our lineage demanded excellence above all else.
I'd internalized those lessons. Built my entire professional identity around precision and control. And it worked. I'd become Head of Operations at an age most Zandovians only aspired to such positions. I'd designed systems that served thousands of beings with elegant efficiency.
But Jalina had walked into my office six months ago and looked at those elegant systems with her expressive dark eyes and said, "Where do people laugh here? Where do they cry? Where do they just... exist without purpose?"
And I didn't have an answer.
"I don't know if I can be what she needs," I admitted quietly.
"Have you asked her what she needs?"
"No."
"Then maybe start there. Before you design seventeen failure scenarios in your head." Kex'tar moved toward the door, then paused. "For what it's worth, I've never seen you smile as much as you do when she's in this office. And I've never seen you leave work early, which you did twice last week to attend her courtyard presentations. If that's not feelings, I don't know what is."
I'd left work early. The realization was jarring. I'd never left work early. Not for social events, not for personal interests, not for anything that didn't directly serve Mothership's operational efficiency.
But I'd left for Jalina. And I'd do it again without hesitation.
After Kex'tar departed, I stood alone in my office, surrounded by the holographic blueprints of structures I'd designed but never truly inhabited. The expansion project hung before me, a perfect synthesis of my precision and Jalina's humanity. We'd created something together that neither of us could have achieved alone.
Maybe that was the answer. Maybe relationships, like buildings, weren't about individual perfection but about how two different elements supported each other. Created something stronger in combination than in isolation.
The chronometer showed 1800 hours. Jalina would be finishing her afternoon sketching session in the observation deck, a habit I'd learned by accident when I'd gone there seeking quiet and found her instead, curled in a corner with her notebook, capturing the way starlight reflected off Mothership's hull.
I could comm her. Request another working session.
Or I could do something unprecedented.
I could just go to her. Not because the project demanded it. Not because Captain Tor'van had ordered collaboration. But because I wanted to see her smile. Wanted to hear her explain how light behaved differently in the Shorstar Galaxy compared to her memories of Earth's sun. Wanted to exist in the same space without hiding behind holographic displays and professional protocols.
The decision should have required extensive analysis. Cost-benefit calculations. Risk assessment.
