Rynn’s eyebrow twitches—the most expression I’ve seen from him yet. “I require no sustenance at present.”
“Your stomach just growled,” I point out, hopping up and heading toward the galley. “That was either hunger or you’ve got a small creature living in there. Either way, food solves the problem.”
I don’t wait for his response, just sashay down the corridor, letting my hips sway a bit more than necessary. Call it an experiment. When I glance back, his eyes snap up to my face so quickly I almost laugh. Gotcha, Mr. Broody.
The galley is tiny but functional, plastered with holographic stickers from every planet I’ve visited. I slap the food synthesizer, which hums to life reluctantly.
“Zip, two dinner specials. And make them...” I consider Rynn, who’s hovering in the doorway like he’s afraid of catching something, “...extra bland for our distinguished guest.”
“Processing request,” Zip announces with theatrical formality. “Might I suggest adding some personality to the meal? Perhaps a dash of paprika as a hint of rebellion?”
“Not tonight, old friend.” I wink at Rynn. “I think our passenger might have an allergy to fun. Seems like the type.”
The food is simple—rehydrated protein packs with synthetic vegetable cubes—but it’s hot and filling. I watch with amusement as Rynn examines each bite carefully before eating it, like he’s expecting to find something suspicious.
“It’s not poisoned,” I tell him, mouth full. “If I wanted to kill you, I’d be more creative.”
He pauses mid-bite. “That is not reassuring.”
I laugh. “Just a joke. OOPS has a strict ‘no murdering clients’ policy. Bad for business.”
“Your humor is... unusual.”
“You mean fun? Yeah, you should try it sometime.” I lean forward, studying him. “So, Rynn—can I call you Rynn now that we’re sharing a meal?—what do you do when you’re not being all mysterious and diplomatic?”
He carefully sets down his utensil. “My work consumes most of my time.”
“That sounds boring. No hobbies? No wild parties? No secret passion for collecting antique spaceships or dancing in zero-g clubs?”
“No.” His tone is flat, but there’s something in his eyes—a flicker of... what? Longing? Regret?
“Everyone has something they do just for fun,” I press. “Even you, Mr. Perfect Posture.”
He’s quiet for so long I think he’s not going to answer. Then, softly: “I read. Historical texts, primarily. And I... observe the stars, when possible.”
It’s such a simple admission, but it feels like he’s shared a profound secret. I find myself smiling, not my usual teasing grin but something gentler.
“Stars, huh? That’s something we have in common, then. Though I prefer being among them to just watching.”
He looks up, meeting my eyes directly. “Yes. I gathered that about you.”
There’s a moment—brief but electric—when something passes between us. A recognition, perhaps. Then Zip voice breaks the silence.
“Approaching high-traffic sector. Manual navigation recommended,” Zip interjects with professional efficiency. “Though I could handle it myself if you’d prefer to continue your fascinating psychological analysis of our brooding passenger.”
I clear my throat and stand. “Duty calls. Make yourself comfortable. We’ve still got a few hours before refueling.”
As I return to the cockpit, I’m acutely aware of Rynn’s eyes following me. There’s more to this “diplomatic attaché” than he’s letting on—much more. The restricted data, the biological locks that require special equipment, the way he carries himself like someone used to being obeyed without question.
I’ve delivered enough packages for enough important people to recognize power when I see it. And Rynn Valorian, whatever his real story is, has power in spades.
The question is: what’s he doing on my ship, heading to a backwater station like Helios with a package he won’t let out of his sight?
I have a feeling this “simple delivery” is going to be anything but simple.
And honestly? I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Even if Mother would definitely have something to say about my growing curiosity regarding Mr. Tall, Dark, and Classified.
