“That’s actually incredible.” She leans closer to observe Jitters’s process, and the movement brings her near enough that I can smell the sleepy-warm scent of her, vanilla and honey and something uniquely hers. “The applications for filtration technology alone could revolutionize water treatment systems in frontier settlements.”
“You could ask him for samples,” I suggest, trying to focus on the conversation rather than the fact that she’s standing close enough to touch, wearing sleep clothes that reveal the elegant line of her throat, her hair still mussed from my coveralls. “He would be honored to contribute to scientific advancement. Though he might require compensation in the form of excessive praise and possibly sharing your coffee.”
Jitters warbles enthusiastic agreement, his pink glow intensifying to near-neon levels at the suggestion of scientific collaboration and shared beverages.
She accepts the coffee Jitters offers with genuine warmth that makes the blob creature practically vibrate with happiness. “Thanks, Jitters. This smells amazing even if it’s slightly concerning that you’re part of the brewing process.”
From his position near the coffee maker, Jitters glows brilliant pink and produces a sound like pleased purring mixed with the hum of satisfied machinery.
She sips the coffee, her green eyes studying me over the rim with analytical focus that makes my heart rate spike for entirely unprofessional reasons. I’m suddenly very aware that I showered less than an hour ago while thinking about her, that my body is still hyperaware of her proximity, that the bond is humming with satisfaction at having her close again after the separation.
“So,” she says, and there’s warmth underneath the teasing, “back to the romance novel research. Did Commander Blade Starfire provide any useful guidance, or was it all strategic kidnapping and rippling muscles?”
“There was mention of predatory grace,” I admit, my face heating again. “And commanding presence. I attempted to practice the techniques.”
“And?”
“I collided with your door frame.”
She chokes on her coffee. “You tried to practice predatory stalking in my ship?”
“The manual was very specific about the importance of masculine movement,” I defend, though I can hear how ridiculous it sounds. “I was attempting to understand appropriate body language for courtship scenarios.”
“And instead you injured yourself on my furniture.”
“The door frame was positioned poorly,” I insist. “Any Velogian male attempting to demonstrate dominance would have encountered similar difficulties in such confined quarters.”
She’s trying very hard not to laugh. I can see it in the way her mouth twitches, hear it in the breathless quality of her voice when she asks, “Did the romance manual mention anything about proper spatial awareness during courtship displays?”
“Commander Blade Starfire did not address furniture-related injuries in his tactical approach,” I admit. “Though in retrospect, this seems like a significant oversight in his otherwise comprehensive guidance.”
“Maybe because it’s fiction and not actually meant to be followed as an instruction manual,” she suggests, and then she does laugh—that genuine sound that fills the galley and makes something in my chest settle into contentment.
She’s laughing with me, not at me. Finding the absurdity in our situation rather than the disaster.
“I also attempted to practice his dialogue,” I confess, because apparently we’re fully committed to discussing my humiliating research now. “The line about ‘you belong to me now, little star.’”
“How did that go?”
“My forked tongue made it sound like ‘you belong to me now, little sssstar,’” I demonstrate, and she laughs harder. “The sibilance ruined whatever commanding presence I was attempting.”
“Oh my god, you actually tried it out loud?”
“I was attempting to be thorough in my research,” I say with as much dignity as I can manage, which isn’t much given the circumstances. “The manual suggested that vocal tone and delivery were crucial to successful courtship declarations.”
“Crash,” she manages between laughs, “I need you to understand that Commander Blade Starfire is what we call ‘aspirational fantasy,’ not ‘practical guidance.’ Real courtship doesn’t involve predatory stalking or growling possessive declarations.”
“Then what does it involve?” I ask, genuinely confused now. “If human entertainment provides inaccurate guidance, how am I supposed to understand what makes human females feel pursued in ways they find appealing rather than uncomfortable?”
Her laughter subsides into something softer. She sets down her coffee cup and looks at me with an expression I can’t quite read. “You really care about this. About doing it right.”
“Of course,” I say, confused by the observation. “You are bonded to me through accident rather than choice. You have lost your career, your professional identity, everything you worked for. The least I can do is attempt to understand what makes you feel valued. Pursued in ways that respect your autonomy rather than simply imposing my biology on you.”
She’s quiet for a moment, and through the bond I can feel something shifting in her emotional state—surprise maybe, or something warmer that makes my chest constrict.
“That’s actually really sweet,” she says finally. “In a completely ridiculous, romance-novel-researching kind of way.”
“I am attempting to be worthy of your trust,” I say seriously. “Even if my methods require significant improvement and my execution leaves much to be desired.”
