“Is it?” His hand lifts, hesitant, and settles on my hip with a gentle touch that contradicts the intensity in his gaze. “Because I feel like we have barely begun gathering empirical evidence.”
This is dangerous. This is exactly what I shouldn’t be doing. We’re supposed to be maintaining professional boundaries, not conducting experiments in alien physiology that involve me standing between his thighs while we discuss our mutual attraction.
“Your glands appear to be functioning normally,” I say, trying to salvage some dignity from this situation. “No apparent damage. Full mobility and secretion capacity intact.”
“Thank you for your... thoroughness.”
“You’re welcome.”
Neither of us moves. The air between us is shimmering—actually shimmering with heat haze—and I can see the fine scales along his throat catching the light as his breathing speeds up.
“You do not find my appearance... unsettling?” he asks suddenly, looking uncertain in a way that makes him seem younger. Vulnerable. “The scales, the markings, the obvious non-human features?”
“I find it striking,” I admit, because we’re apparently past the point of polite lies. “Attractive, even. You look like something designed for combat.”
His head snaps up. “Attractive?”
“Extremely.” I trace one of the geometric markings down his shoulder, feeling the slight texture difference where the darker scales create patterns against the golden base. “Like someone took a warrior and decided to make him beautiful just to prove they could.”
“Beautiful,” he repeats, testing the word like he’s never applied it to himself before.
“Frustratingly beautiful,” I clarify, letting my fingers trail lower to trace the defined muscle of his chest. “Because it makes it very hard to maintain professional objectivity when you look like this and smell like heaven and vibrate every time I touch you.”
“I do not vibrate,” he protests weakly.
“You’re vibrating right now.”
“That is... muscular tension from restraint.”
“Uh huh.” I press my palm flat against his chest, feeling the rapid hammer of his heart and the fine tremor running through him. “Very restrained.”
“I am being exceptionally well-behaved,” he insists. “Commander Blade Starfire would have already engaged in possessive claiming behavior. I am merely sitting here while you torment me with medical examinations that feel significantly less medical than advertised.”
“I’m being very professional.”
“You are standing between my knees with your hand on my chest while I try not to think about all the ways I want to touch you,” he counters. “This is perhaps the least professional either of us has ever been.”
He’s right. But I can’t seem to make myself care.
“Zola,” he whispers, my name a plea and a warning and a question all at once.
He leans forward. I sway toward him. His hand slides from my hip to the small of my back, pulling me incrementally closer. This is it. To hell with the protocols. To hell with maintaining boundaries.
I can see the gold flecks in his amber eyes, feel his breath against my lips, smell the shift in his scent as it goes from vanilla-spice to something headier, more intoxicating—
Then, a wet splat.
Something lands directly between us with enough force that it bounces off Crash’s knee before hitting the floor with a squelch.
We spring apart like guilty teenagers caught making out behind the school.
Jitters is on the floor, vibrating so hard he’s a blur of panicked orange. He ricochets off the medical cabinet with a rubbery thwang, bounces off the wall with a splat, and finally puddles in the corner like melted anxiety, letting out a high-pitched whine that sounds like a deflating balloon.
“What’s wrong with him?” I ask, breathless, my heart hammering against my ribs for entirely different reasons now.
Crash is pressed against the bulkhead like he’s been caught doing something illegal, looking like he’s in actual physical pain. “I believe,” he says, his voice strained and rough, “he is experiencing acute anxiety about social dynamics he does not understand.”
I look at the blob, who is now cycling through distressed colors like a malfunctioning traffic light. I look at the gladiator, who is still obviously aroused and clearly suffering. And I start to laugh.
