“Perhaps that is why the bond formed between us,” I suggest. “We understand each other’s commitment to keeping people safe, even at personal cost.”
“That’s a very optimistic interpretation of biochemical accident.”
“I am attempting to find meaning in impossible circumstances.”
She almost smiles. “Me too.”
The Precision clears the platform and enters open space, and I feel the subtle shift as Zola engages the FTL drives. Behind us, the twisted wreckage of my courier ship recedes into the distance, along with whatever remains of my former life as a solitary courier with a death-warrior problem.
Ahead lies three days in shared quarters with a woman whose scent makes my biology purr with satisfaction, whose competence makes my heart rate spike in ways I don’t fully understand, whose presence has somehow become the central organizing principle of my existence.
Three days to figure out if this bond can be broken, or if we’re permanently connected by biochemical accident and impossible attraction.
I watch her work the controls with quiet efficiency, completely focused on the task at hand despite the chaos surrounding ourlives, and realize that regardless of how the next three days unfold, I am grateful.
Grateful that if I had to be accidentally bonded to someone, it was her.
Grateful that she’s willing to face this situation with pragmatic determination rather than anger or denial.
Grateful that she’s here, close enough that the bond hums with contentment, safe and alive and entirely herself.
“Thank you,” I say quietly.
She glances at me with confusion. “For what?”
“For not giving up when the separation test knocked you unconscious. For being willing to share quarters despite the difficulty. For treating this as a problem to solve rather than a disaster to endure.” I pause. “For being you.”
Her expression shifts to something softer, more vulnerable than I’ve seen from her since the bonding.
“You’re welcome,” she says simply.
And for the first time since this nightmare began, I allow myself to believe that maybe, just maybe, the next three days won’t be entirely terrible.
Unlikely to be professionally appropriate, certainly.
Biochemically complicated, absolutely.
But not terrible.
From the galley comes the sound of Jitters organizing kitchen supplies with enthusiastic determination, preparing for the journey ahead with the kind of optimism only a sentient blob creature can maintain.
KiKi begins playing soft background music again—something instrumental and actually quite pleasant.
And Zola doesn’t tell the AI to turn it off this time.
We have three days to figure out how to function as bonded partners while being hunted across space by an honor-obsessed warrior.
Three days in shared quarters, maintaining professional boundaries, fighting constant attraction.
Three days that might be the longest and most complicated of my entire existence.
I watch her pilot us into the void, competent and determined and entirely unaware that I’m already more than half in love with her, and think:
This is going to be interesting.
6
Research & Development
