Outside, the winds scream. The whole corridor groans like it’s being peeled open by a god. But in here, it’s just us. Breathing the same electric air.
I could kiss her. Right now.
Could lean in that last inch and finally feel the mouth that talks like a whip and smiles like a secret.
But I don’t.
Not yet.
Because she’s not pulling away, but she’s not pullingcloser, either.
And this—whatever this is—deserves patience. Not something I’m good at, but for her?
I’ll learn.
The next day, Commander Wex is up my ass again.
Not metaphorically. I mean, he’sliterallythree inches from my left shoulder, breathing through his nose like a malfunctioning air recycler while I try to keep from punching the command deck's bulkhead.
“Sector Nine is unstable,” he growls, arms behind his back like he’s auditioning for sternest bastard alive. “You will pilot Whiplash at 0600. No delays. No excuses.”
“Yeah,” I mutter, popping the kinks out of my neck, “except for the small issue where the Meld system is spitting up errors like it ate bad sushi.”
He narrows his eyes. “Fix it.”
I glance toward Aria, who’s hunched over the interface board like it owes her money. She doesn’t look up. Doesn’t need to. Her fingers dance across the haptic keys, punching in commands with surgical precision.
“Wearefixing it,” I say. “But I need her brain cooperating with mine, and right now, she’s got the psychic shutters bolted shut.”
She snorts without looking over. “Maybe your brain should try knocking before kicking the damn door in.”
Wex stares between us, jaw tight, and lets out a long, weary sigh. “Resolve this. Quickly.”
He stomps off in a flurry of coat flaps and bad vibes, and I wait until he’s fully gone before rolling my eyes so hard they nearly clank.
“I swear, that man dreams in grayscale.”
“You know he can probably still hear you, right?” Aria mutters.
“Then maybe he should trylisteningwhen I say we’re not Meld-ready.” I walk toward the cockpit, tapping on the neural housing with one claw. “It’s like pairing a nuke with a blender. Something’s gonna explode.”
“I’m the blender in that metaphor, aren’t I?”
I grin. “You said it, not me.”
She slams the panel shut, steps back, and crosses her arms. Her eyes cut sharp across the room, and the fluorescents catch the flecks of gold in her irises. Most humans blink too much.Ariastareslike she’s running equations in her head and you’re either part of the solution or about to be deleted.
“I don’t trust you,” she says.
It’s blunt. Honest. Maybe even brave.
I respect it.
“That’s fair,” I say, softer now. “But we need to get past it. Fast.”
“Why?” Her voice doesn’t rise. If anything, it drops. “Because you say so?”
“No,” I say. “Because if we don’t get inside each other’s heads, we’re both gonna die.”
