“Your markings are really bright right now.”
“Yes.” No point denying it.
“What does that pattern mean?” She asks again, and this time we both know she’s not going to accept a deflection.
“Increased physiological response to stimuli.” Not a lie, but not the whole truth.
“What kind of stimuli?”
Proximity. Heat. The scent of vanilla. The feel of your body against mine. The way you fit into my life like equations finally solved.
“Environmental factors,” I say again.
“You keep saying that.” She shifts slightly, turning to face me as much as the space allows, and now we’re front to front instead of back to front, which is infinitely worse. “But I don’t think you mean the environment.”
“Dove—”
“It’s okay.” Her hand lifts, hovering near the patterns at my neck. “Can I?”
Every self-preservation instinct I have screams that I should say no. Should maintain distance. Should remember this is temporary.
“Yes,” I hear myself say.
Her fingers touch the markings at my neck—gentle, curious, warm. The contact sends electricity through every nerve ending. Patterns flare brighter, pulsing.
“They feel warm,” she whispers. “Do they always do that?”
“No.” My voice is barely functional. “That pattern indicates... elevated response.”
“To what?”
You. Everything about you.
“To various factors,” I manage.
“Cetus.” She says my name like a reprimand, like a caress. “What does this pattern mean?”
I should lie. Should deflect.
“It means I’m failing spectacularly at maintaining professional distance,” I say instead, honest in a way I didn’t intend.
Her breath catches. “Oh.”
“We should—” I start to pull back.
Her hand on my markings stops me. “What if I don’t want professional distance either?”
The world narrows to this moment. This cramped maintenance crawlway where I can’t escape her proximity or her question or the way my entire biology is insisting yes.
“The storm will clear,” I say, which is not an answer. “You’ll leave. Tavia will—”
“I know.” Her hand drops, but she doesn’t move away. “I know it’s temporary. I know I’m leaving. But that doesn’t mean this—” she gestures between us, “—isn’t real. Right now.”
Right now. This moment. This unexpected connection that’s already taken root deeper than it should have in less than twenty-four hours.
“Right now,” I echo.
“So maybe we see what happens? While I’m here?”
