"This wasn't an attack. Not in the way you understand attacks."
"Then what was it?" I was curious what he had concluded.
His jaw tightened. "A test."
That word slid under my skin. The same conclusion I had made. I stepped closer without realizing it, and my shoulder nearly brushed his arm. Heat flared there instantly, sharp andfamiliar now, like my body had already learned the shape of him and was impatient for reminders. "A test for who?"
His eyes flicked to my mouth, just for a fraction of a second. But I saw it. I knew what he'd say before the words left his mouth, "For us."
The word landed heavy between us. I swallowed and forced my attention back to the data. "It reacted to your movements. To the ship's adjustments. That means it wasn't just energy; whatever it was, it was processing input."
"Yes."
"Which means—" I stopped, exhaling slowly. "It means it was thinking."
He didn't argue. My stomach dropped. That was… impossible. Or at least to my human way of thinking. If I wanted to be of any help in our survival, I needed to adapt the way I thought, processed, and everything I had ever learned. The silence stretched, taut and intimate, charged with everything neither of us was saying. I could feel him now, not in my mind exactly, but… present. Like standing too close to a heat source. Like gravity, subtle but inescapable.
"I should be furious," I muttered, more to myself than him.
He angled his head. "You are."
"I should be afraid," I continued.
"You were," he said.
I looked up at him, allowing my conviction to reflect in my voice. "I'm not anymore."
Something dark and unreadable moved through his expression. Possessive. Protective. Cautious.
"That will get you killed," he warned softly.
"Maybe," I replied. "But it's also why I'm still here."
His gaze held mine, and for a moment the bridge felt too small, the air too thin. I was acutely aware of every inch of space between us and of how little it would take to close it again.
"You shouldn't feel safe with me," he warned.
I smiled despite myself. "You don't get to decide that."
His mouth curved, just barely. "You enjoy challenging dangerous things."
"I study black holes," I reminded him. "This is on brand."
A low sound escaped him—not quite a laugh, not quite a growl—and my stomach flipped in response. Good God. This was ridiculous. We were discussing sentient cosmic phenomena and the possibility of a black hole with… a brain, and all I could think about was the way his hands had felt at my waist.
He stepped back, deliberately putting space between us. I hated that I felt the loss of that heat like a physical ache.
"We leave as soon as repairs are complete," he announced, voice all command now. "Cronack is close."
"Close in whose definition of time?" I wanted to know. The concept of time was still important to me.
His eyes flicked back to me. "Relative."
"Of course," I muttered. "Why would anything be simple?"
I turned toward the viewport again, pressing my palms to the glass, grounding myself in something solid. Behind me, I felt him watching me—not predatory, not impatient. Assessing. Protecting. Wanting.
The awareness slid over my skin like heat. I turned slowly, forcing myself not to rush it. He stood where I'd left him, broad shoulders squared, hands loose at his sides as if he were restraining something far more dangerous than the storm we'd just survived. His aura wasn't flaring now, but it wasn't quiet either. It hummed low, dark, and steady, like a current waiting for contact.
