"A date," I confirmed, though my linguistic database couldn't quite convey the weight the term carried in human culture.
"Yes." No hesitation. "Yes, I'd love to."
The relief that flooded through me was disproportionate to the simple agreement. This was just dinner. Just an exhibition. Just two individuals choosing to spend time together outside professional obligations.
Except it wasn't simple at all.
It was the first time I'd deliberately chosen personal connection over professional efficiency. The first time I'd admitted—even to myself—that I wanted something beyond optimal designs and elegant systems.
I wanted Jalina.
Not as a collaborator. Not as a project partner.
As someone who made me see the universe differently. As someone who made me want to be more than the sum of my accomplishments.
"I should let you return to your friends," I said, though leaving her presence felt actively painful.
"Or," Jalina countered, "you could stay for a few minutes. Look at the stars with us. Dana and Bea won't mind."
They absolutely would mind. I saw Dana's knowing smirk and Bea's analytical assessment from across the deck. But Jalina's hand extended toward mine, an invitation rather than a demand, and I found myself accepting it.
Her fingers were impossibly small in mine. Delicate in a way that should have made me terrified of my own strength, but instead made me hyperaware of how carefully I needed to hold her. How much trust she was placing in me.
We walked back to her corner together, still holding hands, and something about that simple gesture felt more significant than any blueprint I'd ever designed.
Dana's smirk intensified. "Zor'go. Nice of you to join us."
"Dana," I acknowledged, settling beside Jalina on the observation bench. The fit was awkward, Zandovian proportions didn't integrate well with human-scaled furniture, but Jalina adjusted naturally, tucking herself against my side like she belonged there.
Like we fit.
Bea studied me with her clinical gray eyes. "So. You and Jalina."
It wasn't a question, but it demanded a response.
"Yes," I said simply. Because complexity could wait. Right now, sitting in a space I'd designed but never truly appreciated, with Jalina's warmth pressed against my side and stars streaming past the viewport, simplicity was enough.
"Good," Bea said, as if rendering a medical diagnosis. "She smiles more when you're around. Try not to ruin that."
"I'll endeavor not to."
Dana laughed. "God, you two even sound alike now. It's adorable and terrifying."
Jalina squeezed my hand. "Ignore them. They're just jealous because they've already done the terrifying early dating phase and we get to experience it fresh."
"Dana and Er'dox's courtship involved a ship malfunction and near-death experience," I pointed out. "I'm hoping our progression will be less catastrophic."
"The rescue mission is in three days," Dana countered. "The Contested Reach is notorious for raider activity and unstable asteroid fields. You'll probably end up saving Jalina's life or vice versa. It's the Mothership way."
The observation unsettled me more than it should have. Not because I doubted my ability to protect Jalina. I'd tear apart any threat that approached her. But because Dana was right. Mothership's missions were inherently dangerous. And Jalina would volunteer for the rescue team because that's who she was. Someone who saw beings in need and needed to help.
"You're worried," Jalina murmured, quiet enough that only I could hear.
"I'm calculating risk scenarios."
"Stop calculating. Just be here with me."
The request should have been impossible. My mind never stopped calculating, assessing, designing. It's what made me exceptional at my work.
