He frowns thoughtfully. “So if I adjust the yaw input—what, two percent?”
“Two and a half,” I correct. “You’re fighting the inertia instead of channeling it. Let the ship do some of the work.”
He glances at me, smiling faintly. “I didn’t think you believed in letting anything do the work for you.”
“Don’t mistake precision for control,” I say automatically, then realize how that sounds. His smirk grows.
We fall quiet again, the room humming softly around us. The footage plays in muted blues and silvers, reflecting off his face. He looks calmer like this, focused, almost serious.
When he leans closer to rewind the feed, our shoulders brush. My breath catches.
Focus, Nova.
But he laughs under his breath, the sound low and warm. “You really can’t stand losing, can you?”
“I don’t lose.”
“Then what do you call that porch?”
“A tactical misdirection.”
He grins. “Worked on me.”
I shake my head, but the corners of my mouth betray me. “You’re incorrigible.”
“Accurate.”
I laugh. A real one. It sneaks out of me before I can stop it, light and genuine. It feels dangerous, like the floor might give way beneath me.
Kaz watches me like he’s never seen something so fascinating. Like the sound of me laughing might be rarer than any starfield he’s flown through.
“See?” he murmurs. “Youcanrelax.”
“Don’t push it.”
But my tone’s lost its edge, and he knows it.
He shifts closer, and this time I don’t move away. The air thickens, charged. He reaches up, slow, giving me time to stop him. His fingers brush a stray strand of hair from my face, tucking it behind my ear. The gesture is gentle, reverent. My heart thuds so loud I swear he can hear it.
His hand lingers. My breath shivers out.
“Nova,” he whispers, and I’m undone.
I shouldn’t. Ican’t.
But when he kisses me, I don’t stop him.
It’s softer this time, deliberate. Like he’s afraid to scare me off. His lips are warm, patient, tasting faintly of the mess hall coffee that’s perpetually terrible. My fingers curl against his chest, and I melt, for one impossible heartbeat, into the gravity of him.
Then his hand slips under the hem of my uniform.
The spell shatters.
I jerk back, breathless. “Stop.”
He freezes. The look on his face—confusion, then realization, then guilt—hits harder than any reprimand.
“I’m sorry,” he starts, voice rough. “I wasn’t?—”
