“Good.” Her voice is still rough from unconsciousness, but there’s a thread of something warmer underneath the exhaustion. “That was stupid. The separation test. Really stupid.”
“Yes,” I agree. “But you obtained valuable data.”
She makes a sound that might be laughter. “I obtained a demonstration that ten feet is absolutely the limit and testing it results in immediate unconsciousness. Not exactly groundbreaking research methodology.”
“You are very committed to scientific inquiry.”
“I’m very committed to understanding what I’m dealing with so I can create proper safety protocols.” She pauses. “Also, I’m currently lying on top of you on the floor of my medical bay because I passed out from separation shock. This is not my finest professional moment.”
“You are lying on top of me because I caught you when you fell,” I correct. “And because the bond requires skin contact for proper recovery from separation trauma.”
“Skin contact,” she repeats, and I can hear her processing the implications.
“Your body temperature dropped dangerously low during the separation. Direct physical contact helps stabilize your system.” I pause, trying to maintain clinical detachment despite the way her body fits against mine. “I realize this is... intimate. If you wish to move, I understand. But the bond will be more stable if we remain in contact for at least another ten to fifteen minutes.”
She’s quiet for a moment, and I can feel her thinking through her options.
“This is for medical necessity,” she says finally.
“Yes.”
“To stabilize my system and prevent further complications from the separation test.”
“Correct.”
“Not because you want to hold me.”
The question catches me off-guard with its directness.
“I...” My voice comes out rougher than intended. “I want to hold you. Very much. But that is not why I am holding you. I am holding you because releasing you while your system is still recovering would be medically inadvisable and personally unconscionable.”
She lifts her head enough to look at my face, her green eyes searching mine with that analytical focus that makes my heart rate spike every time she directs it at me.
“That’s the most honest thing anyone’s said to me in years,” she says quietly.
“I am not skilled at deception,” I admit. “Especially not when you are this close and the bond is making it extremely difficult to filter my thoughts before they escape my mouth.”
“What other thoughts are trying to escape?”
Several extremely inappropriate observations about how she smells, how she feels pressed against me, how the way herfingers are still clutching my coveralls makes something in my chest feel too large for my ribcage.
“That you are extremely brave for testing the separation parameters despite knowing it would cause pain,” I say instead. “That your commitment to understanding dangerous situations is admirable even when it results in you collapsing on medical bay floors. And that...” I pause, struggling with words. “That I am very glad you are bonded to me, even though I wish you had been given the choice.”
Her expression softens into something that makes my throat constrict.
“I’m starting to think,” she says slowly, “that if I’d been given the choice, I might have chosen you anyway.”
The words hit me like a plasma burst to the chest—unexpected and devastating and perfect.
“You are simply experiencing bonding pheromones affecting your judgment,” I say, because I need to give her an out, need to make sure she understands this might not be real.
“I’m a safety inspector with state-of-the-art xenobiological scanners who just spent forty-seven minutes documenting exactly how the bonding pheromones affect my system,” she counters. “I know what’s biology and what’s choice, Crash. And choosing to lie here on this floor with you while my career burns down around me? That’s choice.”
From somewhere nearby comes a pleased warbling sound, and we both look up to find Jitters oozing across the deck toward us with determined purpose. He’s carrying two cups of coffee balanced carefully on pseudopods, glowing happy pink and vibrating with what I’m beginning to recognize as satisfaction that his matchmaking efforts are bearing fruit.
“He made coffee,” Zola observes.
“He is very supportive of our bonding,” I explain, carefully accepting one cup while trying not to dislodge Zola from herposition against my chest. “Also extremely invested in domestic harmony.”
