And standing beside it all, looking like every fantasy I’ve ever had and several I didn’t know I needed, is Crash.
He’s wearing ceremonial armor. And by “armor” I mean strategic strips of gleaming metal that cover approximately fifteen percent of his body and emphasize the other eighty-five percent in ways that should probably be illegal. The golden plating traces the musculature of his chest, frames his shoulders, and does absolutely sinful things to draw attention to his hips. His golden skin gleams in the flickering moonlight. His hair is braided back in an elaborate style I’ve never seen before.
He looks nervous. He looks determined. He looks like he’s about to give a presentation he’s been practicing for weeks.
It’s the most adorable thing I’ve ever seen, and I want to climb him like a tree.
“Zola Cross.” His voice has that formal cadence that means he’s reciting something. “On this day, marking one full solar cycle of our bond, I present to you the traditional courtship environment of my people. I have...” He gestures broadly, and I catch the slight tremor in his hand. “I have attempted to recreate the Singing Groves where Velogian mates consummate their unions under the three moons.”
The holographic moons choose that moment to flicker particularly badly, one of them shorting out entirely with a sad littlepop.
The plants scream louder.
“I have prepared the sacred foods,” Crash continues valiantly, “which are meant to enhance—”
“Warning,” KiKi interrupts. “Chemical analysis indicates that substance on the center plate is industrial solvent, not food. Appears I downloaded the wrong cultural database. My bad.”
The glowing slime actively bubbles, eating through another layer of tablecloth.
Crash’s jaw tightens, but he presses on. “I have studied the proper protocols for a one-year bonding anniversary, and I am prepared to demonstrate my continued worthiness through the Ritual Mating Dance of the Golden—”
Jitters, vibrating with what I think is meant to be helpful enthusiasm, suddenly shifts his mass to adjust the lighting. Except instead of romantic mood lighting, he accidentally turns himself into a rapidly strobing disco ball.
“Seizure warning,” KiKi announces helpfully. “Photosensitive individuals should look away.”
“Jitters, no—” Crash lunges for him, trips over one of the plant pots, and crashes directly into the holographic projector.
The remaining moons explode in a shower of sparks.
The plants shriek in alarm.
The table tips, sending industrial-solvent-masquerading-as-aphrodisiac sliding across the floor.
Crash lands hard on his hands and knees, breathing hard, surrounded by the smoking wreckage of his grand gesture. His shoulders are rigid with mortification.
“I have failed the courtship parameters.” His voice is flat, defeated. “I ruined the anniversary. I am a disgrace to the traditions of my people and unworthy of—”
I’m already moving.
The laughter bubbles up from somewhere deep in my chest—not mocking, not cruel, but pure joy. I’m laughing so hard tears streak down my face as I pick my way through the sparks and screaming plants. The industrial solvent is eating a hole in the deck plating. Smoke rises from the destroyed projector. Jittershas turned himself a mortified gray-brown and is trying to hide behind a pot.
It’s perfect. It’s so perfectly, beautifullyhim.
“Zola, I—” Crash starts, still on his knees, and I drop down in front of him.
“You built me a disaster,” I say, framing his face with both hands. His skin is fever-hot under my palms, the vanilla-lightning scent spiking with his distress. “You researched Velogian traditions and terraformed a cargo bay and tried to give me moons and singing groves and ceremonial food, and every single thing went wrong.”
“Yes.” He sounds miserable. “I am—”
“It’s perfect.” I kiss him, tasting the shock on his lips. “It’s the mostyouthing that’s ever happened. Do you know what I would have done a year ago if someone tried to surprise me with romantic chaos?”
His hands come up to grip my waist, automatic and possessive even through his confusion. “Filed... an incident report?”
“Filed an incident report,” I confirm against his mouth. “Probably cited you for improper cargo storage and unauthorized environmental modifications. Definitely would have panicked and tried to fix everything instead of just... feeling it.”
I pull back enough to meet his eyes—those impossible golden eyes that see through every wall I’ve ever built. “You’ve spent a year teaching me that chaos isn’t something to fear. That not everything needs to be controlled or predicted or risk-assessed into oblivion. You made me feel things, Crash. You made mewantto feel them.”
His pupils dilate, the bond between us suddenly flaring wide open. I feel his emotion crash into mine—the mortification transforming into something hungry and possessive and utterly claiming.
