But I’m not running. I’m standing here watching this lethal predator shake like he’s afraid of his own shadow, and my traitorous body is responding with heat instead of horror.
“I am sorry,” he says quietly, his careful pronunciation completely shattered. “When males threaten you, my biology becomes... problematic.”
My brain tries to process this. He just went from flustered Velogian male having a biological crisis over my presence to something that could probably tear apart this platform with his bare hands. And now he’s apologizing like he spilled coffee on my uniform.
“Problematic?” The word comes out higher than I intended. “You just—Logarx looked like he was going to wet himself!”
“He was attempting to intimidate you.” Crash’s voice is still rough, alien accent bleeding through now that his control is shattered. “My species does not... tolerate... threats to potential mates.”
Potential mates.
The words hit me like a plasma blast to the chest. Not “attractive females” or “professional safety inspectors.” Potential mates. As in, his biology has looked at me and decided I’m suitable for—
Heat floods my face. Heat floods places that have no business responding during a professional crisis. My scanner chooses that moment to helpfully display: SUBJECT EXHIBITING MATE-GUARDING BEHAVIOR. BIOLOGICAL COMPATIBILITY CONFIRMED. RECOMMEND IMMEDIATE... The text scrolls too fast to read, but I catch fragments about “optimal reproductive pairing” and “enhanced bonding protocols” that make me want to throw the damn thing off the platform.
“This is not normal Velogian courtship behavior,” I manage, though my voice sounds strangely breathless. “Is it?”
The golden flush spreads across his skin again, and those geometric markings pulse brighter. “No. This is... unprecedented. I have never...” He stops, looking mortified. “You affect me in ways that are most concerning.”
Concerning. Right. Because having an alien courier’s biology decide you’re mate material during a professional safety inspection is just concerning.
“I should leave,” I say, but I don’t move. “I should file an emergency evacuation report like the others and—”
“Please.” The word comes out rough, almost desperate. “Please do not fear me.”
And that’s the problem, isn’t it? I should be terrified. I should be calling for backup and a hazmat team. Instead, I’m looking at this gorgeous, dangerous male who transforms into a lethal predator at the first hint of threat to me, and my traitorous body is responding with interest instead of terror.
“You were protecting me,” I say, trying to make sense of my own reaction.
His golden eyes snap to mine with desperate hope. “You are not... afraid?”
I should be. Everything logical about this situation says I should be running for my ship and never looking back. But the way he’s looking at me now—vulnerable, worried, like my opinion matters more than his next breath—isn’t frightening at all.
“I don’t know what I am,” I admit, and it’s the most honest thing I’ve said since arriving on this platform.
Something in his expression shifts, becomes softer. The vanilla-honey scent returns, but stronger now, more complex, with deeper notes that make my head spin and my knees weak. It’s like breathing in liquid desire, and my scanner starts displaying increasingly frantic readings about biological compatibility and optimal proximity that I’m definitely not supposed to be getting during a professional safety inspection.
My body temperature spikes. My pulse hammers in places I shouldn’t be thinking about. I take a step back, trying to clear my head, but the scent follows me like it’s designed to be inescapable.
“You are... different,” he says softly. “The others felt the threat pheromones and fled. But you...”
“But I what?”
“You stayed.” His voice drops to almost a whisper. “Even after seeing what I become when provoked, you stayed.”
Before I can respond to that—before I can figure out what it means that I did stay—proximity alarms start screaming.
Not my scanners this time. The station’s emergency klaxons. Red warning lights bathe the platform as automated voices begin evacuation protocol.
“ALL PERSONNEL TO SECURED POSITIONS. UNKNOWN VESSEL APPROACHING. DEFENSE PROTOCOLS ACTIVATED.”
The change in Crash is immediate. He goes from vulnerable and uncertain to something else entirely—focused, alert, dangerous in a completely different way. But this time the shift doesn’t trigger that overwhelming threat response. This is tactical readiness, not protective rage.
“We need to move. Now.” His voice carries command authority I didn’t expect from a courier. His hand moves to my back, not possessive but guiding. “Stay close to me.”
“What’s happening?” But even as I ask, I’m already moving with him toward The Precision, my body responding to the urgency in his voice.
“Someone I hoped never to see again.”
