My arms ache as I slide out from Whiplash’s guts. The mech’s interior always smells like burnt ozone and coolant, like a heavy thunderstorm inside a submarine. Every surface is warm to the touch—residual kinetic bleed—and my fingers are black with carbon scoring. I swipe soot from my thighs as I straighten, shoulders stiff from crouching for two hours without a break.
And there he is.
Naull. Shirtless.Again.
Because of course he is.
He’s standing in the middle of Hangar Bay 3, arms crossed, arguing with a tech who looks like he’d rather be anywhere else. His scaled torso gleams under the fluorescents, red-gold like burnished armor, and his tail flicks in frustration with every word. I don’t know what’s worse—his lack of a shirt or the fact that he’s probably right about whatever nonsense he’s spewing.
“You can’t override the thruster delay dampeners just because they annoy you,” the tech pleads.
“Why not?” Naull asks, deadpan. “They’re slow. I’m fast. Let me win.”
“Let menotrebuild this engine from ash again,” the tech groans, backing away with the weary resignation of someone who’s clearly survived one too many Naull-based explosions.
I cross the floor toward them, boots clanging against the grates, voice sharp.
“Maybe if you stopped punching buttons with your fists, the interface wouldn’t melt.”
Naull turns, slow as a sunrise, and hits me with that smile.
Thatsmile.
The one that says he knowsexactlyhow irritating he is and enjoys every second of it. His fangs glint. His eyes spark with that molten gold mischief. If I didn’t hate him so thoroughly, I might even call him handsome.
(But only during blackouts. With a bag over his smug face.)
“Ah, my favorite nerd,” he says, spreading his arms as if I should be honored. “Tell them the calibration delay is trash.”
“I will do no such thing,” I reply, planting my hands on my hips. “You’re not supposed to override safety measures just because they hurt your feelings.”
“They don’t hurt myfeelings.” He puffs out his chest. “They insult myhonor.”
“You’re flying a glorified blender, Naull, not challenging a god to single combat.”
“Same difference,” he says with a wink. “Besides, the blender’s faster.”
The tech disappears mid-argument, clearly done with both of us.
I pinch the bridge of my nose and exhale through my teeth. “You know the mechs cost more than a year of oxygen rations for the entire base, right? You crash one, and they won’t give you another. They’ll give you a shovel.”
He smirks. “You saying you don’t believe in me?”
“Iknowbetter,” I snap, jabbing a finger into his chest. “You’ve singlehandedly tripped seven red alerts in the last two weeks. You managed to decouple the left stabilizer because, and I quote, you ‘wanted to see if it could flap like a bird.’”
“Italmostdid,” he says, proud.
“Italmostkilled us.”
He steps closer. Just enough that I have to tilt my chin to keep glaring at him properly. I hate when he does this—uses his ridiculous height like a weapon. I can practically feel the heat rolling off him, his skin warm and faintly metallic, like sun-baked copper. His scent is sharper up close, a mix of scorched spice and ozone, and it’s unfair how aware I am of it.
“You were watching,” he murmurs.
I blink. “What?”
“You watched the maneuver. The roll.”
“It wasidiotic,” I say, voice rising.
