“I am conducting essential system maintenance,” Pickles corrects primly. “Any secondary benefits are purely coincidental.”
She’s still standing close, still within arm’s reach, and we’re both breathing harder than the situation warrants.
“We should probably—”
“Yes.”
Neither of us moves.
The air between us is thick with interrupted momentum. With promises almost made. With the awareness that we’ve crossed some invisible line and there’s no going back.
“You should rest,” I say finally, forcing myself to step back. “It’s late.”
“Are we going to talk about what just—”
“Four days,” I interrupt, because if we talk about it now I’ll say too much. Want too much. “We have four days. We’ll... figure this out tomorrow. When I can think clearly.”
“And right now you can’t think clearly?”
“Not even remotely.” Honest. Raw. Too revealing.
Her smile is soft, and it does dangerous things to my cardiovascular system. “Good. Neither can I.”
She moves past me toward the guest quarters, and I catch the scent of vanilla and cherricus fruit mixed with something uniquely her. It takes every ounce of discipline I possess not to reach out, pull her back, finish what we started.
She pauses at her door, looks back. “Four days, Cetus. Let’s not waste them being smart.”
Then she’s gone, and I’m standing alone in my kitchen, markings blazing, temperature regulation completely failed, every nerve ending screaming at me to go after her.
I don’t.
Instead, I force myself through the motions of securing the residential pod for night cycle. Check the atmospheric monitors. Confirm Tavia’s sleeping peacefully. Verify all environmental systems are functioning optimally.
Anything to avoid thinking about Dove twenty meters away. Probably not sleeping. Probably thinking about what almost happened.
“Four days,” I mutter to the empty kitchen.
Four days to have her. Four days before she leaves. Four days to somehow keep my species’ claiming instincts under control while giving us both what we want.
It’s impossible.
But I’m going to try anyway.
I make it approximately forty minutes before admitting defeat.
Sleep is impossible. Meditation fails. Even reviewing atmospheric data can’t hold my focus because every equation makes me think about the curves of her body, the softness of her skin under my palm, the way she looked at me and said “make me yours.”
Heat spreads across my chest, down my arms. My markings pulse in the darkness of my quarters.
My body knows exactly what it wants, even if my mind is trying to be rational about this.
I need... distance. Perspective. Cold water and discipline.
Except when I reach my quarters—the small, efficient space I claimed after we moved here, after Seraphina was already gone—the walls feel too close. Too confining. My skin runs too hot, my markings too bright, my control too fractured.
The shower. Cold water. Discipline.
But the water runs hot despite my temperature settings, because apparently my body has decided that normal function is optional tonight. Steam rises in thick clouds as I strip off my clothes.
