"I attempted to cook. The results remain uncertain." He gestured to the table. "Dana provided the recipe. Er'dox supervised remotely via comm to ensure I didn't accidentally poison you. Apparently Zandovian spice tolerances vastly exceed human capacity."
"You consulted with Dana about cooking me dinner?"
"I consulted with everyone." A slight flush darkened his charcoal skin, his markings flickering with what I'd learned to recognize as embarrassment. "Bea provided nutritional requirements. Jalina suggested the lighting adjustments. Even Captain Tor'van offered advice, though his contribution was largely 'don't overcomplicate things.'"
The image of Mothership's massive, intimidating Security Chief nervously consulting the entire crew about how to properly date me made something warm bloom in my chest. "You didn't have to go to all this trouble."
"I wanted to." He moved closer, and the size difference became impossible to ignore, eight feet eight inches of warrior muscle towering over my five-foot-two frame. But his movements were careful, deliberate. Gentle. "You deserve more than synthesized rations eaten alone in your quarters at 0300 hours while working on systems diagnostics."
"I like systems diagnostics."
"I know. It's one of approximately seventy-three things I find compelling about you." His mouth curved into something almost like a smile. "But tonight, I'd like you to try relaxing. Eating actual food. Spending time with someone who wants your company for reasons that have nothing to do with electrical engineering."
My heart was definitely trying to escape my ribcage now. "Define nothing to do with electrical engineering."
"Elena." He caught my hand, his enormous palm engulfing mine completely. "Stop deflecting. You're nervous. I understand. But you don't need to be. Not with me."
He was right. I was nervous. Terrified, actually. Not of him, never of him, despite the size difference and the warrior training and the fact that he could probably break me in half without trying. I was terrified of this. Of wanting something good. Of letting myself care about someone when the universe had already proven it could take away everyone I loved without warning.
"What if I mess this up?" The question escaped before I could stop it. "I'm not good at this. At relationships and emotional vulnerability and all the things humans are supposedly designed for. What if I?—"
"Then you mess it up." Vaxon's thumb stroked across my knuckles, the gesture achingly tender. "And I'll probably mess it up too, because I'm equally terrible at this despite what my research suggests about proper dating protocols. We'll be disasters together. But honest disasters. Real disasters. The kind of disasters worth trying for."
I looked up at him, at the warrior who'd taken plasma fire for me, who'd admitted feelings he'd buried for months, who'd consulted the entire crew about cooking me dinner becausehe wanted to do this right. At the man who'd fallen for me before I knew how to fall back.
"I'm amenable to disaster," I said.
His smile was devastating. "Good. Because I have plans that involve considerably more than dinner, and they all require you staying."
My stomach executed another complicated flip. "Define considerably more."
"Conversation. Honesty. Probably kissing if you're still amenable after we get through the food." His markings brightened, pulsing with warmth. "And if we're very lucky, figuring out how two complicated people might actually make this work."
"I thought we already figured that out. In medical. When I kissed you."
"That was you kissing me while I was injured and on painkillers and unable to properly respond." His hand found the small of my back, warm through the tunic's fabric. "Tonight, I'm fully healed and completely coherent. Which means I can do this properly."
Before I could ask what properly meant, he bent down and kissed me.
Not like in medical, desperate and clumsy and tasting of fear. This was deliberate. Controlled. The kiss of someone who'd been thinking about this for months and finally had permission to act on it. His mouth moved against mine with careful precision, learning what made me gasp, what made me press closer despite every logical reason why kissing a man twice my height should be impossible.
When he finally pulled back, I was breathless and dizzy and my hands had somehow ended up fisted in his shirt.
"Properly," I managed. "Right. That was?—"
"A preview." His cobalt eyes were darker now, heated. "Now sit down and eat before Dana's carefully calibrated recipe goes cold and she lectures both of us about wasting good food."
I sat. Mostly because my legs had forgotten how to support my weight.
Vaxon served dinner with the same precision he brought to tactical operations—portions perfectly sized for my smaller frame, everything arranged on the plate with mathematical symmetry. The food was actually good. Better than good. Whatever Dana had taught him to make involved some kind of protein I couldn't identify, vegetables that had actual flavor instead of synthesized blandness, and bread that was still warm.
"This is incredible," I said after the third bite. "You actually cooked this?"
"With supervision. Significant supervision." He watched me eat with that intensity that should be unnerving but just made me feel seen. "Dana emphasized that humans require regular meals at scheduled intervals and that your habit of working through mealtimes was 'medically inadvisable and personally offensive.'"
"She's dramatic."
"She cares about you. They all do. Your friends were very invested in ensuring tonight went well."
