“Six hours,” he says. Voice rough. Layered with those deeper harmonics that haven’t fully receded.
“Six hours,” I confirm. “We can do a lot in six hours.”
“I can think of several things I’d rather do in six hours.” He holds up a hand before I can respond. “Inspection preparation. I’m aware.”
He buttons his shirt correctly. Slowly. Deliberately. Like he’s reconstructing his composure one fastening at a time. I retie my hair with fingers that fumble the elastic twice.
We don’t mention the Lividian word he said against my mouth. The one I couldn’t translate. The one that felt like a claim.
“Pickles, updated compliance checklist. Priority items only.”
“Compiling. And Specialist Storm? Captain Foxton?”
“What?”
“I calculate a seventy-eight percent probability of suboptimal decision-making due to combined stress and unresolved sexual tension. I recommend maintaining a minimum three-meter distance during all remaining preparation activities.”
“Three meters,” Cetus repeats flatly.
“Within arm’s reach, you lose nearly sixty percent of your combined cognitive efficiency to what I can only characterize as ‘mutual pining.’”
Tavia appears in the doorway, breathless, badge askew. “Also, the collectors! Pickles, what about the collectors?”
“The Blackstar vessel’s ETA remains uncertain. Latest intercept suggests eighteen to twenty-four hours. However, their acceleration patterns indicate they may be attempting to close the gap.”
“So PDC in six hours,” I say, pulling my composure around me like armor. “Collectors in eighteen to twenty-four. Commerce Authority raid in forty-eight.”
“And the storm is weakening,” Cetus adds quietly. “Projected to break within the next twelve hours.”
Which means ships can land. Which means the shield of impossible weather is dropping right when we need it most.
“Then let’s get to work.” I pull my hair tighter, grab the compliance checklist from the screen, and channel every ounce of frustrated energy into the one thing I can control. “Cetus, environmental systems. Tavia, you’re on signage inspection—bilingual check on every posted notice. Pickles, real-timecompliance tracking. I want a percentage score updated every thirty minutes.”
“Captain, your cortisol levels suggest—”
“I’ll sleep when we survive this. Move.”
Tavia darts off toward Corridor B, badge bouncing. Pickles begins rattling compliance metrics. The station hums with renewed purpose.
Cetus holds my gaze across the operations center. Six hours of work ahead. Collectors closing in. An inspection that will determine whether his station survives. And between us, the wreckage of a kiss that rewrote everything we thought we knew about self-control.
My fingers drift to my throat. To the tender spot where his teeth grazed. I press. The ache blooms warm and bright, and something low in my stomach clenches.
He watches me do it. His markings flare once—sharp, involuntary—before he forces them steady.
“For the record,” he says, his voice low enough that only I can hear, “after we survive this—I intend to finish what we started. All of it.”
“For the record,” I answer, matching his volume, “I’m counting on it.”
His markings burn once. Bright. Certain. A promise in bioluminescent gold.
That word he growled against my mouth—guttural, Lividian, untranslated. Whatever it meant, I want to hear it again. Properly. With nothing between us.
Then we get to work.
11
Best Behavior Protocol
