There’s a mechanical clatter as his cybernetic hand presses against the bulkhead, then his mouth is on mine, harder than I expected, softening only when he’s sure I won’t break apart under him.He tastes of salt and sweat and the metallic tang of recycled air, but underneath is something else.A hunger aching in my bones, too.
I open to him, losing myself in the press and shift, in the sudden, desperate friction of bodies that have gone too long uncomforted.
He breaks off first, his breath ragged, and looks at me like he’s never seen me before.The red light paints him savage, wild, but the hand he lifts to my face is feather-light, careful not to bruise.“We shouldn’t,” he says, but the words are more ritual than refusal.
I slip both hands around his neck, feeling the heat trapped there, skating my nails over the fine, damp hair at the nape.“Neither should half the things we do,” I say, and steal another kiss, this one slower, more deliberate—a mapping of territory, a negotiation, a truce.He lets me set the pace this time.
The hydro bay fills with the sound of our breathing, the soft slap of fabric, the faint, sticky squeak of algae mats underfoot.I pull him with me to the corner where the tanks crowd closer together, where the condensation runs in lines down the polymer walls and the air is thick enough to drink.
He lifts me, easy, and my legs wrap around his waist as he pins me against a support strut.The cold of the steel seeps through my suit, mixing with the inferno along my skin.
Pulling back, he brushes the hair from my face with his prosthetic hand—gentle, reverent, the motions too precise to be natural.
I nuzzle into his palm and kiss the thumb pad where I know he’s most sensitive.
He shivers.“Gods, you drive me crazy,” he murmurs, pressing his forehead to mine.
“Really?Prove it.Show me,” I say, barely more than a breath.
When we kiss again, it’s less battle and more surrender.His mouth is open and desperate, body pressed so close I can feel every tremor in his core.
I drag his suit zipper down just enough to find skin—fever-hot and slick, the muscles twitching under my fingers.
He reciprocates, fumbling with my own seals, and our chests slide together, separated by only the barest film of synthetic fabric.
The taste of him fills me, and I give back everything; all the longing, the fear, the lonely hours I’ve spent imagining this exact scenario with the brightness of the algae glow burning my retinas.
He bites my lower lip, not quite drawing blood, and the pain mixes with pleasure until I can’t tell which is which.
The outpost is silent, save for us.No klaxons, no comms, only the soft hiss of oxygenators and the distant drip of condensation.The rest of Mars could be dead and buried and it wouldn’t matter.
He breaks the kiss, panting, and rests his face against my neck.The stubble scratches, the sharp tickle of it sending sparks up and down my spine.
I close my eyes, memorizing the way his chest rises and falls, the pressure of his hips pinning me to the strut, the hum of his prosthetic as he strokes my hair in slow, hypnotic passes.
“I am not good for you.”His words are muffled by my skin.
I wrap my arms around him, grounding us both.“I know,” I reply.“That’s why it’s perfect.”
We stand like that, entwined in the crimson half-light, until our pulses slow and the sweat cools on our bodies.I don’t want to move or shatter the fragile truce of this moment, but the next shift will start soon and Kael is nothing if not practical.
He sets me down, but doesn’t let go immediately.Our eyes meet, and there’s a rawness in him now—a need, a promise, something I’m terrified to name.
I tap his chest, right over his heart, and smile.“See you at comms?”
His lips curve, wry but softer than I’ve ever seen.“Wouldn’t miss it.”
I watch him leave, the cut of his back taut with purpose, and the hydro bay is suddenly too empty.
I linger a moment longer, my fingers pressed to my lips, the taste of him lingering.The air smells of sweat, algae, and something electric.I’ve never felt more alive.
The central archive is colder than I expect—some malfunction in the recirc system, or maybe the metal walls just hoard the night chill out of habit.My breath hangs in the air, streaming from my lips in a ghostly vapor as I squeeze between towering racks of drives and banks of obsolescent computation.Even after ten months on Ares Outpost, the place still makes me feel like an intruder.
Light here is never steady.Overhead strips flicker with their own half-life, leaking through cracked diffusers and splintering shadows across the uneven floor.It takes a moment for my eyes to recalibrate, to parse the chaos of projected overlays and the hunched, fossilized shapes of old terminals.The only real color comes from the dozen holo-maps splayed out along the east bulkhead, flickering topographies stuttering as the processors lag and catch.
Stacks of hand-labeled data cylinders, ragged-edged printouts, the fine dust of Martian regolith that finds its way into every crevice, even in supposed clean rooms.If the hydro bay feels like biology—living, breathing, sweating—this place is pure machine.Sterile, indifferent, and patient.
I shake the pins and needles from my hands, flexing them in my gloves.The adrenaline from earlier is still ricocheting through my bloodstream, making my thoughts skip like a scratched audio file.Kael’s taste lingers on my lips, a ghostly tang I try not to lick away.
