A pause. Then, infuriatingly calm: "Food, I can do now."
He turned without waiting for my response, already moving towards the door, which, of course, opened for him, insufferable man, then he walked down the corridor like the ship belonged to his stride, which, apparently, it did. I followed, still irritated, still wired, still very aware of him in that way I was trying not to be. And still very hungry.
Thekitchenwas not a kitchen. It was a recessed alcove that flowed out of the wall as we approached, surfaces unfolding like origami guided by invisible hands. Panels slid open, revealing interfaces that shimmered with soft light. No burners. No refrigerator. No recognizable appliances. Instead, a central platform pulsed once as Dravok placed his palm against it.
"State preference," the ship intoned, not aloud, but directly into my head. Not invasive, just… present.
I flinched. "It talks?"
"It listens," Dravok corrected. "Most of the time."
Figures.
I cleared my throat. "Protein. Carbs. Something warm. And coffee. Real coffee, if that exists in your terrifyingly advanced universe."
His mouth twitched. "It exists."
The platform brightened. Molecules rearranged themselves with unsettling elegance; light bent as matter condensed. A moment later, a tray rose smoothly from the surface: a bowl of something that smelled like spiced grains and roasted vegetables, a piece of seared protein that made my stomachgrowl in betrayal, and—miracle of miracles—a steaming mug of dark liquid that smelled exactly like salvation.
I stared at it. "If this is a trick?—"
"It's coffee," he assured me. "Drink."
I did. And nearly groaned.
"Oh my god," I muttered. "That's unfair."
He watched me over the rim of his own cup, amusement flickering openly now. "You humans are very attached to stimulants."
"You'd be too if your species had invented deadlines," I shot back, already halfway through the bowl.
The tension eased, just a fraction. Not gone. Never gone. But manageable. When I'd eaten enough to feel human again, he nodded toward the corridor. "As for clothes and the other necessities you mentioned earlier, we'll order them and have them delivered here."
"Good," relief rushed through me. "Because I refuse to wear mysterious alien loungewear for the rest of my life."
He handed me the palmtop as we walked. The interface shifted instantly, recognizing my touch, opening into a sprawling marketplace that made Amazon look like a garage sale.
"Oh," I said, delighted. "Oh, this is dangerous."
He stopped, arms crossing. "Pick what you need."
"Need," I echoed, already scrolling. "Sure."
I did not pick what I needed. I picked everything. Clothes, actual clothes. Dresses that flowed like liquid light. Boots with adaptive gravity soles. Jackets woven with temperature-regulating fibers. Undergarments that promisedbiometric comfort optimization, which I did not want to think about too hard. I added skin-care modules—nanite-infused facial rejuvenators, dermal hydration veils, something called astellarresonance massagerthat claimed to reduce cellular fatigue by harmonizing with local spacetime curvature.
Absolute essentials.
I had to hold up the palmtop once, and it measured me, head to toe.
I kept going.
Hair tools. Portable hygiene fields. A compact personal AI assistant shaped like a bracelet. A sleep cocoon. A personal atmospheric adjuster. Three different kinds of fabric cleanser because I did not trust alien dirt.
I glanced up at him, smug. "You're going to regret this."
He leaned against the bulkhead, watching me with naked amusement. "You should know," he smiled mildly, "that if you think you can make me let you go by spending too much, you're mistaken."
I snorted. "Oh, I don't know. This is alot."
