Lividian. Apex predator evolution, zero patience for inefficiency, notoriously practical about everything.
Also: holy hell, he’s gorgeous in a way that makes me acutely aware of every nerve ending in my body.
Heat radiates from him even at this distance, and there’s something about his scent—clean and metallic with underlying warmth—that makes me want to get closer. Which is insane, because he’s looking at me like I’m a particularly disappointing calculation.
“Captain, your heart rate has increased by twenty-three percent,” Pickles observes through my earpiece. “Yourrespiratory pattern has also altered. This is statistically significant. Fascinating.”
I tap my earpiece twice—our signal for shut up now—but I can practically feel Pickles’s smug satisfaction through the connection.
Oh no. This is exactly the kind of thing Mother was warning me about.
Focus, Dove. Professional distance. You’re a courier, not an idiot.
“Your stature appears insufficient for standard cargo handling procedures,” he says, voice carefully controlled.
“Yeah, well, you’re exactly as charming as I expected.” I gesture to my containers. “Your cargo manifest. Seeds, supplements, growth medium, and entertainment modules for—” I check my scanner “—Tavia?”
The harsh lines soften. His markings dim to a gentler pulse. “My daughter. She has been anticipating these materials for several rotations.”
Of course the scary alien with bedroom eyes is also a devoted dad. Universe, why do you hate my ovaries?
“Captain, I feel compelled to note your hypothalamic-pituitary-adrenal axis response suggests you are experiencing attraction to the client,” Pickles announces in my ear. “This conflicts with OOPS Professional Conduct Guidelines, Section 7, Subsection 3: ‘Inappropriate Bond Formation with Delivery Recipients.’”
I tap my earpiece three times—I will disconnect you—and his commentary mercifully ceases.
“Well then, let’s get her supplies unloaded before the storm turns us into crispy critters.”
He steps closer. The heat from his body is intense, almost like standing near a forge. When he reaches for the first container,his claws extend enough to grip before retracting—such careful control it speaks of years of conscious restraint.
“This unit contains volatile materials.” He lifts my heaviest container like it weighs nothing. “Proper handling protocols must be observed.”
“I’ve been hauling cargo since I was seventeen. I know how to handle volatile materials.”
His yellow eyes fix on me. “Seventeen. Young to begin independent courier operations.”
“Young to be orphaned, too, but here we are.” The words come out sharper than intended. Great job, Dove. Nothing says ‘professional’ like trauma-dumping on your clients.
But he doesn’t react with pity. Instead, his markings pulse in a pattern I can’t interpret. “Loss is difficult. Particularly when experienced at formative developmental stages.”
Before I can figure out how to respond to that unexpected understanding, the lights flicker. A sharp crack echoes through the bay as debris impacts the station’s hull.
“Atmospheric debris.” He’s there instantly, one large hand steadying my container while the other hovers protectively near my shoulder—not touching, but close. “The station’s shields will deflect larger fragments, but impact damage is concerning.”
Standing this close, I can see how his yellow eyes catch light, how his markings trace patterns along his temples and disappear beneath his collar. I find myself wondering how far down they go, which is absolutely not professional courier thinking.
A new alarm wails, urgent and pulsing.
“Storm velocity has exceeded safe departure thresholds.” He straightens, containers balanced easily. “Weather patterns indicate sustained electromagnetic activity for a minimum of seventy-two hours. Potentially extending to one full rotation cycle.”
A week. A week trapped here while my delivery schedule implodes and the Blackstar Collective starts sharpening their repossession tools.
“I can’t stay here.” Desperation bleeds into my voice. “I have other deliveries, deadlines, bills. My creditors aren’t exactly the patient type.”
“Captain,” Pickles says quietly in my ear, having apparently decided to risk commentary again. “I have analyzed the atmospheric data. Departure at this time would result in a ninety-nine point seven percent probability of catastrophic system failure. I... recommend you accept the client’s assessment.”
Coming from Pickles, that’s practically an emotional plea.
“You cannot depart from here. Electromagnetic pulses during peak storm activity can disrupt cardiovascular function in humans or cause complete neural system failure in Lividians. Your vessel’s electronics would be rendered inoperative before achieving orbital escape velocity.”
