I thought about the expansion project, about designs that wouldn't exist without my input. About Maya rebuilding her life with my support. About Dana and Er'dox, Bea and Zorn, the community we'd built from displaced survivors and impossible circumstances.
About Zor'go, who'd taught me that blueprints were starting points, not endpoints. That the best structures emerged during construction, adapted and evolved to fit the beings who lived in them.
"Ask me when it's not hypothetical," I said instead of answering.
"Coward."
"Practical. Why choose between impossible options when they don't exist yet?"
His markings flickered with something that might have been amusement. "You've been spending too much time with Dana. You're starting to sound like an engineer."
"You say that like it's an insult. Engineers built civilization."
"Architects designed it."
"Same thing."
"Categorically different disciplines?—"
I kissed him before he could launch into a technical lecture about the distinction between engineering and architecture. He made a surprised sound—three months together and I could still catch him off-guard—before his arms tightened around me, lifting me slightly so I didn't have to strain my neck at quite such a painful angle.
When we broke apart, his markings were doing that rapid shimmer-pulse thing that meant I'd thoroughly disrupted his thought process.
"What was that for?" he asked.
"Because you're about to give me a forty-minute lecture on structural versus aesthetic disciplines, and we have a meeting with Captain Tor'van in thirty minutes."
"Twenty-seven minutes. Your time estimation needs work."
"And your ability to recognize when someone's kissing you to shut you up needs work."
"I recognized it. I'm simply informing you that the tactic won't be effective long-term."
"Noted for future reference." I glanced at the memorial again, at all those names carved in bronze and stone. "We should go. Tor'van wants progress reports on the secondary expansion phase."
"The secondary expansion can wait two minutes." Zor'go didn't release me, his gaze following mine to the memorial. "You built something important here, Jalina. Not just a garden. A space for grief to exist alongside joy. For memory to coexist with hope."
"We built it," I corrected. "Your structural calculations made it possible."
"Your vision made it necessary." His voice went soft, almost vulnerable. "Before you, I designed spaces for function.Efficient, optimized, perfect by every measurable standard. But they were empty. You taught me that beings don't just need shelter—they need beauty. Connection. Places that honor what they've lost while making space for what they might find."
Emotion swelled in my chest, complicated and overwhelming. "That's really unfair. You can't say things like that and expect me to function in a professional capacity for the next three hours."
"Consider it compensation for the kissing-as-distraction tactic."
"I hate you."
"You love me."
"Those aren't mutually exclusive."
His markings pulsed with definite amusement now. "No. They're really not."
We left the garden together, his hand dwarfing mine but his grip careful, always careful. Mothership's corridors were busy with shift change, Zandovians and Talaxians and half a dozen other species moving through spaces designed for functionality but softened now with the touches Zor'go and I had added. Artwork on bulkheads. Varied lighting. Small seating alcoves where crews could gather informally.
The expansion project had changed more than Mothership's physical structure. It had changed how beings thought about living spaces, about community, about what constituted home.
We reached Operations, where Captain Tor'van was already waiting with Kex'tar and a holographic display showing the proposed secondary expansion. Dana and Er'dox stood together, reviewing data on a shared screen. Bea had joined via remote link from the medical bay, her pale face serious on the comm display.
