"You're an engineer who lives in work clothes. This is not surprising." Dana pulled out her communicator, typed something quickly. "I'm calling in reinforcements."
"That's not necessary?—"
"It's absolutely necessary. You're going on an actual date with someone you actually like. This requires consultation." She smiled at my obvious discomfort. "Trust me. Jalina and I will get you ready. Bea too, if we can pry her away from medical."
Twenty minutes later, I was in the quarters Dana shared with Er'dox, which were larger and somehow felt more like home than any space I'd occupied since Liberty, while three of my closest friends systematically dismantled my anxiety through the ancient human ritual of Getting Ready Together.
"You can't wear work coveralls to dinner in his quarters," Jalina said firmly, rifling through Dana's closet with the confidence of someone who actually understood aesthetics. "That sends the message that you're treating this like a work meeting."
"Maybe I want to send that message," I protested. "Maybe keeping it professional is safer."
"Safer is boring," Bea said from her position on Dana's sleeping platform, where she was allegedly providing moral support but was actually just enjoying watching me squirm. "And Vaxon doesn't strike me as someone interested in boring."
"He almost died."
"Two days ago. He's recovered. And he asked you to dinner, which means he's interested in living, not dwelling on near-death experiences." Bea's gray eyes were sharp. "You're catastrophizing again. Stop it."
I opened my mouth to argue, but Dana cut me off. "Here." She held up a soft tunic in deep blue, simple but elegant. "This works with your coloring and won't make you feel like you're wearing a costume. Pair it with your normal pants and you'll be comfortable but still putting in effort."
I took the tunic, studying it suspiciously. "This is yours. I'm at least four inches shorter than you."
"Three inches. And it'll hit you mid-thigh, which is fine. It's dinner, not a formal ceremony." She pushed me toward the hygiene unit. "Go. Shower. Actually wash your hair. We'll handle the rest."
The shower was equal parts relaxing and terrifying. Because once I was clean and dressed and presentable, I'd have to actually show up to dinner. Actually sit across from Vaxon and have a conversation that wasn't about ship systems or mission parameters or any of the safe topics we usually hid behind.
I'd have to be myself. The real, unfiltered, overly enthusiastic version that talked too much and thought too fast and wanted things with an intensity that scared me.
When I emerged, Jalina had laid out options, Dana's blue tunic, a pair of my own pants that were mysteriously clean (someone had done laundry without asking), and even jewelry that I definitely didn't own.
"The necklace is from me," Jalina explained, holding up a delicate chain with a small pendant. "I made it last month. Was going to give it to you for your birthday, but this seems like a better occasion."
The pendant was exquisite, a tiny circuit design rendered in silver, the kind of attention to detail that only Jalina could achieve. It was personal and thoughtful and made my throat tight.
"You didn't have to?—"
"I wanted to." She fastened it around my neck, the chain settling just below my collarbone. "You deserve beautiful things, Elena. You deserve someone who sees how remarkable you are."
Bea stood, moving with that precise efficiency she brought to everything. "Hair."
"My hair's fine?—"
"Your hair is actively trying to escape your head. Sit." She pointed at a chair with the kind of authority that made argument impossible.
I sat. Let her work some kind of magic with a product I didn't understand, turning my wild curls into something that still looked like me but somehow more intentional. Not tamed, just lovely chaos instead of complete anarchy.
Dana handed me the tunic. "Put it on."
I did. The fabric was soft, comfortable, hitting exactly where Dana had promised. It felt like me but elevated,like I'd tried without trying too hard.
"Perfect," Jalina declared.
I turned to the mirror, barely recognizing the person staring back. Still me, hazel eyes, tan skin, height disadvantage, the singe scar on my forearm from that disaster two months ago. But also different. More confident, maybe. Or at least trying to look confident.
"What if I mess this up?" I asked the room at large.
"You will," Bea said matter-of-factly. "He will too. That's what trying means—accepting that neither of you will be perfect and choosing each other anyway."
"That's terrifying."
