Tense. Right. That’s one word for the way my entire body feels like a live wire every time he moves, every time that subtle scent of his wraps around me and makes me think about things I definitely shouldn’t be thinking about.
“Just concentrated,” I lie, turning back to the delicate work of fusing the severed power coupling. “This is precision work.”
“Of course.” He settles into position beside me, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his skin but not quite touching. “I’ll try not to distract you.”
Too late for that. But instead of saying it, I focus on the plasma welder, on the steady hiss of superheated gas, on anything other than the way his presence seems to fill the small space and make the air thick with possibility.
The problem is that he’s genuinely helpful. He doesn’t hover or ask unnecessary questions or try to take over. He just quietly hands me tools when I need them, holds components steady when I’m working at awkward angles, provides a second set of eyes when I need to verify connections. It’s the kind of competent, unobtrusive assistance that speaks of real experience.
It’s also incredibly, stupidly attractive.
I’ve always been drawn to competence. There’s something about watching someone who knows what they’re doing, who can handle themselves in a crisis, that just does things to me. And Rynn is clearly someone who knows what he’s doing, even if he’s being deliberately vague about his background.
I find myself stealing glances at him as we work—the way he moves with economic precision, the focused intensity in his golden eyes, the subtle play of muscles under that gorgeousmarked skin. Everything about him screams restrained power, careful control.
I wonder what he’d be like if that control slipped. Wonder what it would take to make him lose that perfect composure and show me something raw and unguarded. Wonder if he’d be gentle or demanding, whether he’d take his time or lose himself to urgency. Wonder what those elegant hands would feel like when they weren’t being careful, when they were claiming instead of helping—
“The quantum matrix is fluctuating again,” he says, checking the diagnostic scanner. “Point-four variance.”
Right. Work. Focus on work, not on the way his voice gets rougher when he’s concentrating, or how the scales on his shoulders catch the light when he moves.
“Still within acceptable range, but keep monitoring.” I lean forward to access the next connection, hyperaware of the way his gaze tracks the movement. “If it jumps to point-seven, we’ll have problems.”
“Understood.”
The simple acknowledgment shouldn’t send a little thrill through me, but it does. There’s something about the way he takes direction without argument, the way he trusts my expertise without question, that hits all my competence buttons in the best possible way.
Most passengers would be questioning every move, second-guessing my decisions, or worse—trying to take over because they assume they know better. Rynn just quietly follows my lead with the kind of confidence that suggests he’s used to working with skilled professionals.
I wonder what other kinds of situations he’s been in that required this kind of teamwork. Wonder if he’s always this quietly commanding, this unshakably competent under pressure. Wonder if he brings that same focused intensity toeverything he does, including the kinds of things that would leave us both breathless and satisfied—
“Matrix variance dropping to point-three,” he reports. “Whatever you just did worked.”
“Good.” I sit back on my heels, wiping sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand. The compartment is definitely getting warmer, and not just from the equipment. Having him this close, shirtless and competent and smelling like sin, is making my internal temperature regulation go haywire.
“You’re very skilled at this,” he observes, and there’s genuine admiration in his voice that makes something warm and dangerous unfurl in my chest.
“It’s my job.” But I can feel heat rising in my cheeks at the compliment. “OOPS doesn’t hire people who can’t handle their own repairs.”
“Even so.” His gaze moves over my face with an intensity that makes my pulse skip. “Not everyone could have stabilized that matrix cascade. That was impressive problem-solving.”
The praise shouldn’t affect me this much. I’m used to compliments about my technical skills—they’re facts, not flattery. But something about the way he says it, the quiet certainty in his voice, makes me want to live up to whatever image he has of me.
It also makes me wonder what other kinds of skills he might find impressive. What other ways I could make him look at me with that particular blend of admiration and something darker, hungrier. Wonder if he’d watch me with the same intensity if I was demonstrating entirely different kinds of expertise—
“CAPTAIN,” Zip’s voice suddenly fills the compartment, making me jump. He only shouts when he’s nervous, “I HATE TO INTERRUPT WHAT APPEARS TO BE A FASCINATING DISPLAY OF MUTUAL PROFESSIONAL ADMIRATION,BUT WE HAVE MULTIPLE SITUATIONS REQUIRING ATTENTION.”
I immediately refocus on the scanner, grateful for the distraction from my increasingly inappropriate thoughts. “What kind of situations?”
“THE PRIMARY COOLANT MANIFOLD IS SHOWING STRESS FRACTURES, THE NAVIGATION ARRAY NEEDS RECALIBRATION, AND LIFE SUPPORT SYSTEMS REQUIRE OPTIMIZATION FOR EXTENDED OPERATIONS.”
“How urgent?” I’m already mentally cataloging repair priorities, calculating what we’ll need and how long it might take.
“THE COOLANT MANIFOLD IS MOST CRITICAL—APPROXIMATELY FOUR HOURS BEFORE WE RISK CONTAINMENT FAILURE. THE NAVIGATION ARRAY CAN WAIT UNTIL WE’RE MOBILE AGAIN, BUT LIFE SUPPORT OPTIMIZATION SHOULD BE ADDRESSED WITHIN THE NEXT TWO HOURS.”
I study the access schematics Zip projects onto my tactical display. The manifold is in one of the most awkward locations possible—tight quarters, poor visibility, and close proximity to several other critical systems.
“I’ll need to get in there and reinforce the stress points with molecular patches,” I mutter, more to myself than to Rynn. “But the angle’s going to be tricky.”
