“You know what actually matters more than predatory grace or commanding presence?” she asks.
“Proper spatial awareness?”
“Honesty,” she says. “Being genuine. Showing me who you actually are instead of trying to be some fictional character from a space pirate romance.”
“The actual me injured himself attempting to demonstrate masculine authority at oh-four hundred,” I point out.
“And then admitted it instead of pretending it didn’t happen,” she counters. “That’s more attractive than any amount of manufactured dominance, Crash. The fact that you care enough to research human courtship rituals because you don’t want to make me uncomfortable—that matters.”
She takes a breath, and I can smell the shift in her scent that suggests her next words cost her something. “I spent three years building a reputation for being the inspector who doesn’t compromise. Who follows every protocol and never lets emotions influence professional judgment. And now I’m bonded to my inspection subject, living in shared quarters, and apparently being courted through secondhand romance novels. My career is probably over.”
“I am sorry,” I say quietly.
“But you know what?” She meets my eyes. “The you who researches terrible romance novels because you want to do rightby me, who admits when you walk into door frames—that makes me think this situation isn’t entirely terrible.”
“You think I am not entirely terrible?” The question comes out more vulnerable than I intended.
“I think you’re maybe the least terrible thing that’s happened to me in years,” she admits. “Even if you did accidentally biochemically bond us during a firefight.”
From his position on the counter, Jitters makes a sound like happy sobbing and turns brilliant pink, apparently overcome by the romantic progress.
“He is pleased by this development,” I translate unnecessarily.
“I can tell,” she says, and there’s fondness in her voice when she looks at the vibrating blob creature. “How did you find him?”
And just like that, we’re in different territory entirely—the territory of actual connection rather than awkward courtship attempts.
“Three years ago,” I begin. “Outer Rim courier run—the kind most couriers avoid because the pay isn’t worth the risk. But I needed to disappear after leaving the circuits. There was a derelict cargo hauler drifting in dead space. It had been attacked—pirates, looking for easy salvage. I had to retrieve what was left.”
The memory carries weight, and I can feel her attention focused completely on me now, scientific curiosity mixed with genuine interest.
“In the corner, hidden behind damaged containers, I found Jitters. He was barely a hatchling. Small enough to fit in my hand. Terrified. Alone. Trying to camouflage himself but too frightened to maintain proper coloration—he kept cycling through colors that would have made him visible to anyone looking.”
“Junglix are social creatures,” I continue. “They don’t survive well in isolation. Hatchlings separated from their clusters oftendie within days from the stress. He would not have lasted much longer alone on that ship.”
“So you took him in,” she says quietly.
“I could not leave him.” The words come out more intense than I intended. “He was small and afraid and completely alone. I... I understood what that felt like. Being separated from everything familiar. Not knowing if you would survive or if anyone cared enough to help.”
“Three years after leaving the circuits,” she says, understanding.
“Yes. Three years of running from Thek-Ka. Three years of being alone except for dangerous courier jobs and constant fear. And then I found this terrified hatchling who needed someone to care about his survival.” I look at Jitters, who has been listening with focused attention and is now glowing soft lavender. “He needed me. And perhaps I needed him as well. Having someone to protect. Someone who depended on me for more than just delivering packages to dangerous locations.”
“You have good instincts,” she says, her voice carrying warmth that makes my lungs burn. “For taking care of things that need taking care of.”
“I try to be worthy of trust when it is given,” I say simply.
She’s quiet for a moment, then: “You really care. About doing this right. About making sure I’m comfortable despite the circumstances.” She sets down her cup. “But you know what matters more than predatory grace or possessive declarations?”
“What?”
“The fact that you care enough to research because you don’t want to make me uncomfortable—that matters more than any manufactured alpha behavior.” She pauses. “And finding a terrified blob creature and keeping him safe for three years because you understood what it felt like to be alone—that matters too.”
Something in my chest loosens at her words, some tension I didn’t know I was carrying.
“I believe,” I say carefully, “that I am falling for you in ways that have nothing to do with the biochemical bond and everything to do with who you are. Your competence. Your determination to keep people safe. Your willingness to laugh at my failed courtship attempts instead of being embarrassed by them.”
Her scent shifts into something warmer, more complex, that makes my enhanced senses catalog every detail with desperate precision. “That’s better than anything Commander Blade Starfire ever said.”
