Now reborn.
It’s barely spaceworthy. Ugly as sin. Scuffed hull, patchy thermal seals, an engine that growls like a wounded animal. But itflies. And it’sours.
Maug reinforces the hull plating with scrap from Deep Space 12’s wreckage. I set up a miniature geology lab in the back—just a corner of the cargo bay, really, with a gravity anchor, an old microscope, and a stack of salvaged mineral samplers. He teases me for calling it a “lab,” but helps reinforce the storage racks anyway.
We name the shipSecond Wind.
It’s the first thing we’ve ever named together.
Nights come differentlyin deep space.
Time loses its grip.
You measure your days in engine pulses and protein rations, in the static hum of long-range scanners and the way his hands find your waist when you walk past the nav console.
One night, we drift near a binary system. Two suns, dancing slow and steady around each other like tired gods. Their light floods the cockpit in gold and violet, casting everything in a warm, sleepy glow.
I curl my knees to my chest in the co-pilot’s chair, watching the light flicker against Maug’s horns.
He’s quiet, as always, but not distant.
Never distant.
Not anymore.
“Do you really believe we were fated?” I ask.
His head tilts slightly, eyes never leaving the twin stars. “I believe I would’ve crossed time to find you. Fate just made it faster.”
I smile.
Small. Stupid. Huge.
Then I’m out of my chair and in his lap, straddling him with my hands buried in his hair.
“I like that answer,” I whisper.
And I kiss him.
Not gentle.
Not desperate.
Just home.
Without preamble, he kisses me, and I melt into it. His mouth opens under mine like a door kicked wide, and his hands—those massive, clawed hands—slide up my back, under my shirt. He lifts it off with a careful tug, never breaking the kiss. It flutters to the console beside us, forgotten like gravity.
I can feel his cock already, hard and heavy beneath me, even through the thin cargo pants he wears. I roll my hips instinctively, grinding down, and he grunts—a low, guttural sound that vibrates into my chest.
His hands go to my hips, then pause. “Tell me to stop,” he rasps.
I lean in, lips brushing his. “Don’t you fucking dare.”
That’s all it takes.
He surges forward and stands with me in his arms like I weigh nothing. He doesn’t stumble. Doesn’t grunt from the effort. Just moves with purpose across the cockpit, lowering me down onto the warm metal floor. A throw blanket cushions my spine, soft against the faint chill that creeps between shield flares.
He kneels between my legs and stares.
