We’re going to have to remain in close proximity for the next hour minimum. Working on delicate systems that require steady hands and focused attention.
While I’m acutely aware of every breath she takes, every small movement, every accidental brush of contact.
“Proceed with the diagnostic,” I manage. “I’ll monitor the secondary systems.”
She nods, turning to examine the sensor housing. Which puts her back against my chest, and I have to reach around her to access the monitoring equipment.
This was categorically the worst idea I’ve ever had.
“Okay,” she says, her voice slightly breathless, “you were right about the coupling. See this thermal stress pattern?”
I lean closer to examine the display, which means my chest is pressed against her back, and I can feel her warmth through both our clothes, and smell vanilla even over the metallic scent of the maintenance area.
“I see it.” I barely recognize my own voice.
“We can reroute through the secondary array here—” she reaches for a connection point, her movement pressing her more firmly against me, “—and use interpolation from the tertiary sensors to maintain accuracy.”
“That violates three standard safety protocols.” The words come out automatically, but I’m not thinking about protocols.
“It’ll work though.” She glances back over her shoulder, and her face is inches from mine. “Trust me?”
Do I trust her? With my station systems? With my daughter’s happiness? With whatever is building between us that I’m failing to control?
“Yes,” I say, and mean it more comprehensively than the technical question warrants.
Her eyes widen slightly. Hold mine. “Okay then. Hand me the plasma torch?”
I reach for the tool, and the movement brings us even closer together. My arm around her to pass the torch forward. Her soft gasp.
This is torture.
Beautiful, excruciating torture.
“Got it,” she says, taking the torch. But she doesn’t move away, and neither do I, and we’re both breathing harder than the work warrants.
“Dove—”
“Yeah?”
“The thermal stress on the coupling—” I force myself to focus on the technical problem. “If we don’t sequence the reroutecorrectly, the feedback cascade could compromise the entire sensor network.”
“So we sequence it correctly.” Her hands are steady as she works, but I can see her pulse fluttering at her neck. “Walk me through it?”
I do, my voice low in the confined space, talking her through each connection. She follows my instructions perfectly, her competence somehow making this worse. We work in synchronized rhythm—her hands making adjustments, mine monitoring results, both of us acutely aware of every point of contact.
“There,” she says finally, completing the last connection. “That should do it. Check the readings?”
I pull up the diagnostics. Perfect. Her unorthodox solution worked exactly as she predicted.
“Excellent work.” The words emerge lower than intended. “Your field experience shows.”
“Thanks.” She’s still pressed against me, trapped by the tight space. “We should probably... the space is kind of...”
“Yes.” But I’m not moving. Neither is she.
“Cetus?” Her voice is barely a whisper.
“Yes?”
