"Drink your terrible coffee," I tell his back, my voice not quite as steady as I'd like. "I'm going to stick with water like a sane person. You know, beverages that don't require hazard warnings."
His shoulders shift. Not quite a laugh, but close. Close enough that I count it as a victory.
Late afternoon findsus in the lab, arguing.
"You're using too much nitrogen." I gesture at his formula displayed on the data-pad, frustrated. "The protein-grain will bolt before it sets pods. We need higher phosphorus ratios for root development."
"The soil analysis says we're deficient in nitrogen by forty percent." He pulls up a different screen, shoves it toward me. "Basic chemistry. You can't build proteins without adequate nitrogen."
"Basic biology." I match his tone exactly, watch his eyes narrow in response. "Root systems need to establish before top growth or the whole plant fails under its own weight. It's called developmental sequencing."
"Developmental sequencing," he repeats slowly, "won't matter if the plants starve during vegetative growth."
"They won't starve. I can supplement through bio-kinetic acceleration during flowering. But only if the foundation is stable."
We glare at each other across the cluttered workspace. Data-pads and soil samples and half-empty water bottles scattered between us like battle lines.
Then Haid does something unexpected. He leans back in his chair, crosses his arms, and actually considers my argument instead of fighting it.
"Show me the math," he says.
So I do. Pull up growth models and nutrient uptake curves and projected yields based on the adjusted formula. Walk him through the calculations step by step, pointing out where his assumptions account for standard agriculture but not for my abilities, the way I can push development in ways traditional farming can't match.
He follows every word. Ask sharp questions. Catches an error in my exponential growth projection that I'd missed.
By the time we've hammered out a compromise formula, the station lights have dimmed to night-cycle. My voice feels hoarse from talking. My mind buzzes with the particular satisfaction of solving complex problems with someone who actually understands the work.
"You're right about the phosphorus balance," Haid admits, updating the master file. "I was overcompensating for historical deficiencies."
"You're right about needing nitrogen reserves." I stretch, feeling vertebrae pop. "I can't maintain acceleration indefinitely. The plants need to sustain themselves."
He glances at me. Something almost like a smile touches the corner of his mouth. "Look at us. Agreeing on things."
"Terrifying, isn't it?" The word comes out lighter than I intend, almost playful despite the truth underneath.
"Absolutely." He turns back to the data-pad, but there's something different in the set of his shoulders now. Less rigid. The slightest loosening of that perpetual tension he carries. "We should test the new formula on a small plot first. Establish proper control variables before we scale up."
"Section C in Dome Two." I'm already mentally mapping out the logistics, visualizing the space. "The soil composition there is closest to the station average. It'll give us the most reliable baseline data."
"I'll prepare the bed tomorrow morning. Run a full analysis of the substrate before we start, make sure we're not introducing any confounding factors." He pauses, fingers hovering over the screen as he makes notes. "You can supervise the initial seeding, monitor the?—"
He stops mid-sentence. Goes completely still in that way that makes my pulse quicken.
I follow his gaze to the secondary monitor mounted on the left wall. The one displaying live feeds from the experimentalplots. The test crop we planted last week, the experimental strain we'd engineered specifically to tolerate the low oxygen environments that plague half our growing stations.
It's blooming.
Actual flowers, delicate and white, glowing faintly with bioluminescence in the low light of the remote camera feed. Dozens of them, scattered through the growth bed like fallen stars.
"It worked." My voice comes out hushed, reverent. "Haid, it actually worked."
I move without thinking, drawn to the screen like a moth to flame. Need to see it closer, need to confirm what my eyes are telling me.
He leans in at the same time. Both of us crowding the display, magnifying the image, watching proof of impossible things bloom in poisoned soil.
Our heads touch. Just temples brushing, hair mingling, the smallest point of contact.
Everything stops.
