“How long was I out?”
“Eighty-four minutes. I was... I was becoming concerned about the duration. Velogian bonding shock typically resolves within thirty minutes, but human physiology...” He trails off, worry creasing his features. “I should have insisted you seek medical attention immediately. I should have—”
“Crash.” I cut him off before he can spiral into what sounds like a comprehensive list of self-recriminations. “I’m fine. Groggy, but fine.”
“You are not fine,” he says with the kind of certainty that suggests he knows something I don’t. “You are bonded to an alien male you barely know, trapped in a biochemical connection you did not choose, and your career is probably...” He stops, jaw tight with guilt. “Your entire life has been altered because of my inability to control my biology during a crisis.”
The words hit me like cold water.
My career.
The thought crashes through me with the weight of a collapsing structure, and suddenly I can’t breathe properly. Not from the bond—from the realization of what’s been destroyed in the space of less than an hour.
Three years. Three years of building a reputation for incorruptible professionalism. Three years of perfect inspection records, of by-the-book safety assessments that saved lives and improved working conditions across seventeen stations. Three years of ignoring the loneliness, the isolation, the way other inspectors looked at me like I was some kind of automaton who cared more about regulations than people.
I wasn’t an automaton. I cared about keeping people safe. About making sure that safety protocols weren’t just suggestionsbut actual protections that prevented the kind of disasters that had killed my entire squad during our final military deployment.
“Acceptable risk,” the commander had called it. “Within operational parameters.”
Six people dead because someone decided the safety margins were negotiable.
I’d sworn then that I would never let that happen again. That I would be the inspector who didn’t compromise, who didn’t accept “good enough,” who made sure every protocol was followed to the letter because people’s lives depended on it.
And now?
Now I’m biochemically bonded to my inspection subject. My equipment treats him like a dating prospect instead of a safety hazard. Every report I file will be questioned. Every assessment I make will be scrutinized for bias. My objectivity—the one thing that made me valuable as an inspector—is permanently compromised.
“I can’t be a safety inspector anymore,” I say quietly, and the words feel like carving something essential out of my chest.
The silence that follows feels heavy, weighted with more than just my professional destruction.
When Crash finally speaks, his voice is barely above a whisper.
“Zola. Listen to me.” He’s kneeling beside the medical bay now, close enough that I can see the genuine anguish in his golden eyes. “I need you to understand something. This bond—what I did to you—it wasn’t consent. You were unconscious. You couldn’t choose.”
My brain, still fuzzy from biochemical shock, takes a moment to process what he’s saying.
“I don’t know if the bond can be reversed,” he continues, words coming faster now like he’s been holding them in. “Velogian medical science might have options. OOPS medical has xenobiological specialists. Station medical facilities onKallos might have research I’m not aware of.” He takes a shaky breath. “If you want this undone, if you want me gone, I will spend every credit I have and call in every favor to find you a way out. You didn’t choose this. You deserve the choice.”
The offer sits between us like a live grenade.
I stare at him, trying to reconcile what he’s saying with the biology currently humming between us. “You’d do that? Find a way to break this?”
“I would do anything,” he says simply, and I believe him with a certainty that has nothing to do with the bond. “You deserve agency. Consent. The right to decide what happens to your own body. I took that from you during a crisis, and I’m—” His voice breaks slightly. “I’m so sorry. You were protecting me from Thek-Ka’s weapon fire, and my biology responded by trapping you in a permanent connection you never asked for.”
The guilt radiating from him is palpable even without biochemical awareness. This isn’t just regret about bad timing or unfortunate circumstances. This is a male genuinely horrified by what he’s done.
“Even if it costs you...” I gesture vaguely at the space between us, at the bond that’s currently making my medical equipment think we need romantic mood lighting.
“Especially then,” he says firmly. “Your autonomy is worth more than my comfort. Or my life, for that matter. Among my people, forcing a bond is...” He struggles for words. “It’s considered one of the worst violations possible. The fact that it was accidental doesn’t change what happened to you.”
For a long moment, I just look at him. This alien male who accidentally bonded me during a crisis, who’s now offering to tear apart his own biology to give me back my choice. Who spent forty-seven minutes watching me recover, exhausting himself with protective vigilance, and is now kneeling beside me lookinglike he’d rather face Thek-Ka again than see me trapped by something he caused.
“Ask me again,” I say quietly, “when I’m not foggy from biochemical shock and we’re not being hunted by a gladiator. When I can actually think clearly about what I want.”
Relief floods his expression, followed immediately by more guilt. “Of course. Whenever you’re ready. And until then, I’ll—”
“Until then,” I interrupt, “you’ll help me understand what this bond actually means. All the facts. No romanticizing, no downplaying the difficulties. I need complete data before I can make an informed decision about whether to keep it or break it.”
