I’m toweling off when the realization hits with uncomfortable clarity:
This isn’t going away.
One release isn’t going to satisfy three years of celibacy combined with the most intense attraction I’ve felt in my entire life.
Four days isn’t going to be enough.
Not for the sex—though that’s definitely not enough.
Four days isn’t enough time for what my biology wants: to claim her thoroughly, repeatedly, in every way my species recognizes. To mark her so completely that no other male would dare approach. To bond with her until our scents are permanently mingled. To lock inside her body so many times that her tissues reshape to accommodate me, making her physically incompatible with human males.
Four days to make her see that she belongs here. With me. With Tavia. With us.
The impossibility should be overwhelming.
Instead, I find myself planning. Approaching this like a complex terraforming problem that requires systematic effort toward a seemingly unreachable goal.
I’ve transformed toxic atmospheres into breathable air. Surely I can convince one stubborn courier that staying might be worth the risk.
The markings finally dim as I leave the bathroom, exhaustion beginning to win over adrenaline.
The bed is cold and empty. It’s always been cold and empty—Seraphina never slept here, this was never our space. I chose these quarters specifically because they held no memories. No ghosts.
Now I’m creating new associations. New wants.
Twenty meters away, Dove is probably lying awake too. Probably thinking about what almost happened in the kitchen. Probably wondering if she made a mistake offering me four days.
I hope she’s not regretting it.
I hope she’s lying there imagining the same things I am.
I hope four days will be enough to show her what we could have.
Sleep doesn’t come easily.
I lie in the darkness, counting the minutes until morning, hyperaware of every sound. The soft hiss of environmental systems. The distant rumble of thunder. The station settling around us.
My markings pulse softly in the darkness—dimmer now, but still present. Still broadcasting need to empty quarters.
“Terraforming Specialist,” Pickles says quietly through the comm channel. “Your cardiac rhythm suggests you remain awake.”
“Observant.”
“I have refrained from commenting on the recent thermal spike in your quarters’ water consumption patterns.”
“I appreciate your discretion.”
Pause.
“For what it’s worth, your biometric data suggests you are experiencing what humans call ‘being thoroughly compromised.’”
Despite everything, I almost smile. “That’s not helpful.”
“I am aware. However, I calculate that attempting to suppress these feelings will result in significantly worse outcomes than simply acknowledging them.”
“She’s leaving, Pickles.”
“Perhaps. But the small person believes otherwise. And your markings indicate something you haven’t admitted to yourself yet.”
