“No.”
“Oh, comeon. That tone? That’s your ‘I’m secretly turned on and annoyed about it’ tone.”
I glare at her pixelated smirk. “I don’t have that tone.”
“You so do.”
I scrub a hand over my face. “It’s nothing. I’ve been assigned to a high-priority case. Vakutan male. War vet. Classic overcompensation. Big scales, bigger temper. He’s a logistical nightmare wrapped in titanium and trauma.”
“So basically your dream man.”
I make a strangled noise. “Vira, I swear?—”
She holds up her hands. “Hey, no judgment! Some people like fluff. You like scars and towering rage monsters with daddy issues.”
I throw a pillow through the holo. It passes right through her head.
She cackles. “Wait, wait—tell me about the tension. Is it growly? Is it smoldery?”
“It’s professional,” I snap.
She fake-gasps. “He’s not smoldering at you?”
“He tried to kill me with a tray yesterday.”
“Foreplay.”
“Oh my god.”
“Jaela. Sweetie. Sis.” She leans in like she’s delivering state secrets. “Please tell me you’re at leastthinkingabout climbing him like a jungle gym.”
I hang up on her.
I mean to, anyway. Instead, I just slam the mute button and stare at the dark screen, her frozen laughing face stuck mid-giggle.
And Idothink about it.
About the way his eye tracked me today, like he was learning the map of my body for future battle. About the way his breath hitched—not when he stumbled, but when I caught him. The heat in that tiny space between us, like if we both inhaled too hard, we’d end up kissing out of sheer accident.
I curse under my breath and head to my workshop.
Sleep’s not happening. Might as well build something.
By the time I reach the rehab wing the next morning, I’m jittery from caffeine and my fingers are nicked from soldering. But I’m holding the result of my insomnia in one hand.
A stability bar—recalibrated to his specs. Taller grip height, flexible core, internal resistance compensator. The grips are textured with carbon filament to account for his clawed hands. I even stenciled a Vakutan insignia along the side, though I won’t tell him that.
When I step into the training room, he’s already there.
Earlyagain.
I freeze.
He’s at the far end, stretching. Shirtless. Of course.
His back is a map of scar tissue and cybernetic seams, the gold of his scales glinting where synthetic plating ends. One shoulder is tense, twitching slightly, but he doesn’t falter.
“Looking for a mirror?” I call out, trying not to let my voice crack.
