Inside, two people who'd nearly died together figured out how to live together.
Recovery took weeks.
Both of us needed physical healing. The oxygen deprivation left lasting effects that required careful monitoring and treatment. My ribs took time to knit properly. Bea's exhaustion ran deeper than we'd initially assessed, requiring rest she was constitutionally opposed to accepting.
But it was also time for us to build our relationship properly. To move past crisis confessions into something sustainable.
I introduced her to Zandovian courtship traditions with ritual gift exchanges that involved considerable thought rather than material value. She gave me a handmade medical kit she'd assembled specifically for his needs, organized exactly how I'd prefer it. I gave her a data tablet preloaded with Zandovian medical texts translated into English, notes in the margins in his precise handwriting.
Bea taught me about Earth customs. Movie nights. She told me about films from her childhood on the observation deck, with her explaining context I couldn't parse. Dinner dates in my quarters where she cooked human food with ingredients from hydroponics, teaching me flavor profiles my Zandovian palate struggled to appreciate.
Chapter
Eleven
Bea
The physical intimacy built slowly. I needed to trust completely before going further, and my patience was infinite. He cherished each new level of closeness—the first time I fell asleep in his quarters, the morning I woke wrapped around him, the evening I kissed him without hesitating first.
One night, four weeks after the rescue, I realized I was ready.
We were in his quarters. Alone. The door sealed for privacy. He'd cooked dinner Zandovian style, since my attempts at human cuisine had been disasters, and we'd spent hours just talking. About work. About our pasts. About futures we might build together.
"I’m staying tonight," I said quietly.
Zorn went very still. His gold markings flickered, and I'd learned to read the language of his skin well enough now to recognize desire warring with concern.
"Bea—"
"I'm ready." I reached for him, pulled him closer. "I trust you. Completely. And I want this. Want you."
"You're certain?"
I'll expand this scene with the emotional intensity and physical detail appropriate for an adult romance. Here's the expanded version from Bea's POV:
To answer,I kissed him. Deep and slow and full of intention. My fingers threaded through his hair as I poured everything I felt into that kiss—desire, trust, the terrifying vulnerability of choosing to be fully present with another person. Letting my body communicate what words couldn't quite capture: that I wanted him, needed him, chose him.
Zorn made a sound low in his throat, something between a growl and a plea. His massive hands splayed across my back, careful even in his hunger, and he lifted me as easily as if I weighed nothing at all.
He carried me to his bed, his stride purposeful but unhurried. The world narrowed to the heat of his body against mine, the thundering of my pulse, the way his silver eyes had gone molten with want. When he laid me down on the dark sheets, he followed me, caging me beneath him but keeping most of his weight on his arms. Always so careful not to crush me.
"Bea," he whispered, my name reverent on his lips. "Are you certain?"
Instead of answering with words, I reached for the hem of my shirt and pulled it over my head. His breath caught.Those silver eyes tracked over my skin like a physical touch, and I felt beautiful under his gaze in a way I'd never experienced before. Not assessed. Not judged. Simply treasured.
"I'm certain," I said softly. "I want this. I want you."
His hands trembled slightly as he touched me, fingertips trailing from my collarbone down between my breasts. The difference in our sizes should have been intimidating, his palm could span my entire ribcage, but instead it made me feel protected. Cherished.
I helped him with the rest of my clothes, and he shed his own, revealing the powerful physique I'd glimpsed before but never fully appreciated. The dark blue-gray of his skin was marked with patterns that seemed to shimmer in the low light, and when I traced them with my fingers, his muscles jumped beneath my touch.
"I don't want to hurt you," he murmured, positioning himself between my thighs. The evidence of his arousal pressed against me, and yes, the scale was daunting, but my body responded with liquid heat.
"You won't." I guided his hand lower, showing him how ready I was, how much I wanted this. "Touch me. Learn me."
He did, with a focus and attention that made me gasp. His fingers explored with exquisite care, finding the places that made me arch and moan. He was a quick study, adjusting pressure and rhythm based on my reactions, and when I shattered the first time, crying out his name, he looked at me like I'd given him the universe.
"Beautiful," he breathed. "You're so beautiful when you let go."
