“That’s what concerns me most.”
We finally make it to the cockpit—staying carefully within the ten-foot boundary that now defines our entire existence. The walk should feel awkward, like we’re tethered together, but instead there’s something almost natural about the way we move in synchronization.
Zola slides into the pilot’s chair while I take the co-pilot position, close enough that the bond hums with contentment but far enough that we’re not actually touching. The proximity should feel crowding after eighty-four minutes of enforced separation anxiety, but instead it feels like the missing piece of a complex system finally clicking into place.
She pulls up the navigation interface with practiced efficiency, her fingers flying across the controls with the kind of competence that makes my heart rate spike in ways that have nothing to do with danger.
“Course plotted for Kallos Station,” she announces. “Three days, four hours, sixteen minutes at maximum sustainable speed.”
“Will we need to stop for supplies?”
“The Precision is a mobile repair and inspection craft. We’re equipped for extended solo operations.” She pauses, considering. “Though I should probably run a full systems diagnostic before we depart. Make sure Thek-Ka’s friendly departure didn’t damage anything critical.”
“I can assist with the diagnostic,” I offer. “I have some technical training from my courier work.”
She glances at me with surprise. “You’re qualified for ship systems work?”
“I am qualified to keep aging courier vessels operational through creative problem-solving and questionable safety shortcuts,” I admit. “Whether that translates to competent assistance with properly maintained inspection craft remains to be demonstrated.”
Something in her expression shifts—not quite amusement, but warmer than the professional neutrality she’s been maintaining.
“All right,” she says. “You handle the engine diagnostics while I verify life support and navigation systems. We work better together anyway.”
The words settle into my chest with unexpected weight.
Together.
For three days at minimum. Possibly longer if we can’t find a way to break or stabilize the bond.
Three days of enforced proximity, shared quarters, constant awareness of each other’s presence and emotional state. Three days of fighting the attraction that the bond keeps insisting is both natural and inevitable. Three days of trying to maintain some semblance of professional boundaries while biochemically compelled to stay within ten feet of each other at all times.
“We should probably discuss the logistics,” I say carefully. “Of living arrangements during the journey.”
She doesn’t look up from her systems check, but I see her shoulders tense slightly.
“Such as?”
“Sleeping arrangements. Bathroom coordination. Privacy requirements during what will be extended cohabitation in limited space.”
“Right.” She finally meets my eyes, and I can see her trying to approach this analytically rather than emotionally. “I have one proper bunk in the crew quarters, a medical bay bed that’s designed for emergency rest, and a co-pilot seat that reclines to uncomfortable angles.”
“I can take the medical bay bed,” I offer immediately. “You should have your own quarters.”
“The medical bay is fifteen feet from the crew quarters.” She pulls up a schematic of The Precision and highlights the distances. “We’d be outside the comfortable range.”
I study the layout, calculating. “The co-pilot seat is within range of your bunk. I could sleep there.”
“For three days?” She shakes her head. “You’d destroy your back.”
“My back is not the priority here.”
“Your comfort is absolutely a priority,” she says firmly. “We’re both trapped in this situation. Neither of us should have to be physically miserable on top of everything else.”
“What are you suggesting?”
She takes a breath, clearly steeling herself. “We share the bunk. It’s large enough for two people if we don’t mind being in close contact. The bond will be stable, we’ll both get actual rest, and we can maintain whatever professional boundaries are still possible given that we’re biochemically connected.”
The suggestion sends heat racing through my system—not arousal exactly, though that’s definitely present—but something deeper. Relief that she’s willing to accept the practical reality of our situation rather than trying to maintain impossible distance.
