We’re halfway to the door when she calls out: “Cross? Maxone?”
We turn back.
Mother’s expression has shifted into something softer, more personal. “Happy anniversary, you two. Whatever chaos you’re causing... it looks good on you.”
We’re supervising the cleanup of Cargo Bay Three—which mostly involves KiKi directing station maintenance bots while Jitters helpfully marks areas that need extra attention—when I spot Dove’s ship powering up three bays over.
“There she goes,” I murmur to Crash, watching the courier vessel’s engines flare to life. “Into the storm.”
“Literally,” he agrees, pulling up the meteorological data on his datapad. “That window is going to close six hours earlier than the forecast. She’ll be lucky if she makes it to the surface before the atmospheric instability kicks in.”
“And then she’ll be stuck there.” I lean against him, feeling his arm come around my shoulders automatically. “With a territorial terraforming commander and his daughter, waiting out a week-long storm in close quarters.”
“Sounds familiar,” Crash observes.
“Doesn’t it?” I watch Dove’s ship lift off, maneuvering through the crowded bay with the kind of casual competence that comes from years of courier work. “Think she’ll bond with him?”
“Insufficient data to predict,” Crash replies, but I feel his amusement. “Though I would put the probability at higher than she currently believes.”
Dove’s ship clears the bay, accelerating toward the jump point that will take her to Kepler Station. I send out a silent wish—notthat she’ll avoid the chaos ahead, because that’s inevitable now, but that she’ll be brave enough to embrace it when it comes.
“Come on,” I say, turning back toward The Precision. “We have a cargo bay to decontaminate, a performance review to celebrate, and if I’m not mistaken, you promised me the second half of that Ceremonial Mating Dance.”
Crash’s eyes darken with promise. “I did, didn’t I?”
“Something about an endurance test?”
“Lasting many hours,” he confirms, already steering me toward our ship. “With very specific requirements for completion.”
“Well,” I say, grinning up at him, “we did just get promoted. We should probably celebrate appropriately.”
“Highly appropriate,” he agrees.
Jitters, perched on Crash’s shoulder, turns himself a deliberate gray and flow up into the vents—clearly intending to give us privacy.
“Smart blob,” I call after him.
His answering chirp sounds distinctly like laughter.
“So,” I say, tracing patterns on Crash’s chest as we lie tangled together in our bed, the afternoon light from Junction One’s primary star filtering through the viewports. “Year one of Cross-Maxone Solutions: complete. How do you feel?”
“Satisfied,” he replies immediately. “We’ve built something remarkable,zihah’tel. A business. A reputation. A life together that’s better than anything I imagined when you first walked onto my ship with your datapad and your determination to cite me for safety violations.”
“To be fair, you hadso manysafety violations.”
“I had character,” he corrects, then laughs when I poke his ribs. “Fine. I was a disaster pretending to be competent. You made me actually competent.”
“You were always competent,” I reply, serious now. “You just needed someone to trust you enough to let you show it.”
He pulls me closer, pressing a kiss to my forehead. “And you needed someone to trust you enough to let you make mistakes.”
It’s true. A year ago, I was terrified of anything that deviated from the plan. Now I actively seek out the chaos, knowing that Crash will be there to navigate it with me.
“Think Dove will figure it out?” I ask. “The whole ‘embrace the chaos’ thing?”
“If she’s smart.” His hand slides up my spine possessively. “Though I suspect that particular commander is going to make things... complicated for her.”
“Good complicated or bad complicated?”
