Jitters warbles agreement and presents Zola with the second cup, his pink glow intensifying to almost neon levels of enthusiasm.
“Thanks, Jitters,” she says, taking the cup with genuine warmth that makes the Junglix practically vibrate with happiness.
We lie there on the medical bay floor drinking blob-creature-brewed coffee in companionable silence while Jitters puddles nearby in contented supervision. It should feel absurd—two people who barely know each other, biochemically bonded by accident, drinking coffee on the floor while being hunted by an alien gladiator.
Instead, it feels right.
“We should probably get up,” Zola says eventually. “Move to somewhere more comfortable. Set course for Kallos Station before Thek-Ka decides intellectual stimulation includes boarding actions.”
“Yes,” I agree, but neither of us moves.
“In a minute,” she adds.
“In a minute,” I echo.
We lie there for another three minutes before she finally sits up, carefully disentangling herself from my arms in a way that keeps us within comfortable range. I immediately miss the weight of her against my chest, the way her breathing synced with mine, the vanilla-honey scent that surrounded me.
But I force myself to stand and offer her a hand up because holding her on the medical bay floor indefinitely—no matter how appealing—isn’t practical given our current circumstances.
She accepts my hand and lets me pull her to her feet, and the brief contact sends electricity racing through the bond that makes us both catch our breath.
“That’s going to be a problem,” she observes.
“What will be a problem?”
“Every time we touch, the bond reacts like we’ve completed some kind of circuit.” She demonstrates by taking my hand again, and sure enough, the warmth that floods through the connection is immediate and intense. “How am I supposed to function professionally when holding hands feels like...” She trails off, clearly searching for an appropriate analogy.
“Like everything suddenly makes sense,” I finish quietly.
She looks at me with those analytical green eyes, and I see the moment she decides not to deny it.
“Yes,” she says simply.
We’re still holding hands when my ship’s—no, her ship’s—AI decides to interject with aggressively helpful timing.
“Zola,” KiKi announces in a voice that sounds distinctly pleased with itself, “I’ve been monitoring your recovery from the separation incident, and I’m delighted to report that your biochemical compatibility ratings have improved by seventeen percent since initiating sustained physical contact with your partner.”
The lights in the medical bay dim to what I can only describe as “romantic ambiance” levels.
“Furthermore,” KiKi continues, “I’ve prepared a comprehensive guide to optimal bonding practices during extended space travel, including suggested activities for emotional intimacy development, recommended sleeping arrangements for biochemical stability, and a curated selection of entertainment media that promotes healthy relationship dynamics.”
Soft music begins playing from hidden speakers—something with strings and what might be Velogian mating harmonics.
“I am strongly opposed to these atmospheric modifications,” I say quickly, because Zola’s expression has shifted to somethingbetween mortification and homicidal intent toward her ship’s AI.
“KiKi,” she says with dangerous calm, “restore normal lighting immediately and turn off the music.”
“But Zola, research indicates that romantic ambiance significantly increases bonding satisfaction among newly mated pairs—”
“Normal. Lighting. Now.”
The lights reluctantly return to standard medical bay settings, though the music continues playing at reduced volume.
“I take no responsibility for your AI’s matchmaking tendencies,” I say carefully.
“My AI has decided we need relationship support,” Zola mutters. “As if being biochemically bonded wasn’t enough—now we have electronic supervision of our romantic development.”
“It could be worse,” I point out. “At least KiKi is attempting to be helpful rather than hostile.”
