From somewhere behind us, Jitters makes an approving warble and begins tidying the cockpit with enthusiastic determination. Apparently he approves of our sleeping arrangements and has decided to celebrate through aggressive domestic assistance.
“We should probably establish some ground rules,” Zola says, turning back to her systems diagnostic. “For the shared quarters situation.”
“Agreed. What rules do you propose?”
“Professional courtesy,” she begins, ticking off points like she’s conducting a safety briefing. “We maintain appropriate clothing. We respect each other’s privacy as much as the ten-foot limit allows. We communicate clearly about comfort levels and boundaries. And we remember that this is temporary—a practical solution to a biochemical problem, not a romantic arrangement.”
Each rule makes perfect logical sense.
Each rule also feels like she’s trying to convince herself that the bond isn’t real, that the attraction is purely chemical, that there’s nothing between us except biology and circumstance.
“Those are reasonable guidelines,” I say carefully. “Though I should point out that the bond makes maintaining emotional distance quite difficult. We will be aware of each other’s feelings whether we wish to be or not.”
“Then we’ll just have to get very good at having professional feelings,” she says with the kind of determination that suggests she genuinely believes this is possible.
I don’t argue, because what would be the point? She needs to believe she can maintain control, can keep this situation professional and temporary despite the biochemical reality binding us together.
And who knows—perhaps she’s right. Perhaps we can spend three days in shared quarters, feeling each other’s emotional states and fighting constant arousal, while maintaining perfectly professional boundaries.
I am not optimistic about this plan.
But I watch her work through the systems diagnostic with focused competence, her fingers dancing across controls with the kind of expertise that comes from years of training, and I realize that regardless of whether the plan succeeds, I am committed to making this as manageable for her as possible.
She deserves that much, at least.
“Diagnostics complete,” she announces after several minutes. “All systems operational. Minor stress damage to the external sensors from our rapid departure, but nothing that will affect navigation or life support.”
“Then we are ready to depart?”
“We’re ready to run,” she corrects. “Again. Away from alien gladiators and toward uncertain solutions with dubious success rates.”
“That is significantly less optimistic phrasing than ‘ready to depart.’”
“I’m a realist, Crash. I deal with what is, not what I wish things were.” She initiates the departure sequence, and I feel The Precision’s engines hum to life beneath us. “And what is, is that we’re bonded, hunted, and about to spend three days in extremely close quarters while hoping we make it to Kallos Station before either Thek-Ka catches up or this bond destabilizes further.”
“When you put it that way, it sounds quite dire.”
“It is quite dire,” she agrees. “But we’re still alive, which means we still have options. And I’ve survived worse situations with worse odds.”
There’s something in her voice when she says it—old pain, old grief, old determination forged in circumstances I don’t fully understand yet.
“Your military service,” I guess.
She glances at me with surprise. “How did you know?”
“The way you approach crisis situations. The tactical thinking. The unwillingness to accept ‘acceptable losses.’” I pause. “And the fact that you filed three years’ worth of perfect inspection records with zero safety violations. That level of commitment to protocols suggests someone who learned the cost of cutting corners.”
She’s quiet for a long moment, and I wonder if I’ve overstepped.
“Six people,” she says finally. “My entire squad, gone in seconds because someone decided safety margins were negotiable. I’ve spent three years making sure that never happens again.” She looks at me directly. “And now I’m bonded to a courier who takes the most dangerous routes and has OSHA violation statistics that should be physically impossible.”
“Yes,” I admit. “I understand the irony.”
“Do you?”
“I take dangerous jobs because they keep other people safe from my problems,” I tell her. “Because if I am going to die anyway, I might as well die doing something useful rather than hiding in fear while someone else takes risks I should be taking myself.”
Her expression softens slightly. “So we’re both trying to protect people from dangerous situations by throwing ourselves into them.”
