“On a scale of one to ten. Pickles says your collaborative efficiency has increased by forty-three percent since Dove arrived. I want to see if confined spaces improve or decrease that metric.”
I close my eyes. “Let’s just get in the shaft.”
“That’s what she said,” Tavia whispers to her data pad.
“TAVIA.”
“What? That IS what she said. She said ‘let’s get in the shaft.’ I’m recording dialogue for accuracy.”
Cetus enters the crawlspace first, folding his massive frame into the opening with a grace that shouldn’t be possible for someone his size. I follow, pulling myself in after him.
It’s immediately too warm. The processing systems radiate heat through the shaft walls, and the space smells like metal and recycled air and him—that clean, ozone-sharp scent that apparently lives in my brain’s pleasure center now. The work lamps cast amber light that makes his markings glow like circuitry.
We’re on hands and knees, moving through the shaft in single file, and the view from my position is—
Okay, yes. I’m staring at his back. At the way his work shirt pulls tight across his shoulders when he moves. At the teal skin visible above his collar, marked with those lightning-trace patterns that brighten with every motion. And I’m not going to think about his hands, large and careful with claws sheathed, braced against the metal floor ahead of me.
“The junction is ahead,” he says, and his voice reverberates through the confined space in ways that do unreasonable things to my nervous system.
“Great. Wonderful. Let’s calibrate some sensors.”
We reach the wider section—wider being relative, because it’s still a space designed for one person maximum, and there are two of us, and one of us is enormous. The sensor housing sits in an alcove that requires reaching across the shaft, which means one person needs to brace while the other works.
“I’ll hold the housing steady,” Cetus says. “You’ll need to—”
“Reach across you. Yeah, I see the layout.”
He positions himself against the far wall, knees bent, arms extended to grip the sensor housing. I have to crawl over his legs to access the calibration port, which puts my body between his thighs and my face approximately six inches from his chest.
The misbuttoned chest. With the strip of teal skin. Where yellow markings are currently pulsing a frequency I can feel in my teeth.
“Calibration tool,” I say, holding out my hand.
He passes it to me. Our fingers brush. The contact sends a jolt through me that has nothing to do with static discharge and everything to do with the way his claws extend a fraction of an inch before he forces them to retract.
“Dove.” His voice is barely a whisper, rough and layered with harmonics. “Your hand is shaking.”
“Adrenaline. Early morning. Too much coffee.”
“You’re a terrible liar.”
“And you’re generating enough heat to throw off the calibration readings, so either cool your biology down or I’m going to get inaccurate baseline data.”
A low sound rumbles through his chest. Not quite a laugh. The vibration transfers through the metal floor, through my knees, up through my entire body.
“I’ll attempt to regulate,” he says, but his markings pulse brighter.
I lean across him to access the port, and my hip presses against the inside of his thigh. He freezes. Predator-still—every muscle locked, every breath controlled, his entire body radiating a tension so fierce I can almost taste it.
“The coupling is corroded.” My voice comes out steadier than I feel. “I need to clean the contacts before recalibrating. Hand me the—”
He’s already passing the contact cleaner. Without me finishing the sentence. Because he’s been working alongside me for days now and anticipates my needs before I voice them.
That shouldn’t be as hot as it is.
“Thank you.” I apply the cleaner, hyper-aware of every point of contact between us. My hip against his thigh. My shoulder pressing his chest when I lean forward. The warmth of his breath stirring my hair.
“You’re very efficient,” he says quietly.
