“Yes,” he agrees, moving closer. “You are.”
The air between us suddenly feels charged, heavy with possibility and three years of unspoken want. I should step back. Should remember that I’m supposed to be processing betrayal and violation of privacy. Should focus on the mechanical problems instead of the way he’s looking at me like I’m exactly what he’s been searching for his entire life.
Instead, I find myself moving deeper into the ship, letting my hands trail over surfaces that respond to my touch with gentle illumination.
“Show me the damage,” I say, proud of how steady my voice sounds. “Let’s see if I can work miracles with alien tech.”
The smile that crosses his features is devastating—pure relief and gratitude and something warmer, more dangerous.
“This way,” he says, leading me toward what must be the engine compartment. “And Fiona? Thank you. For trusting me despite everything.”
I don’t answer, because I’m not sure trust is the right word for what’s happening between us. Trust implies rational decision-making, careful evaluation of evidence and character.
This feels more like inevitability. Like standing at the edge of a cliff and knowing you’re going to jump, not because it’s smart or safe, but because something deep in your bones is calling you toward the fall.
The engine compartment is a disaster. Twisted conduits, cracked crystalline structures that might be power cores, fluid leaking from systems I can’t even begin to identify. But underneath the damage, I can see the elegant logic of the design, the way components work together in harmony.
“Can you repair it?” Ja’war asks, and there’s carefully controlled anxiety in his voice.
I study the damage, my mind automatically cataloguing problems and potential solutions. Most of it looks like impact damage—twisted conduits, cracked housing, disconnected systems. The kind of mechanical failures I understand, even if the technology is alien. If the core components aren’t fried, if the quantum matrices or whatever they use for brains are still intact, this should be fixable. Hopefully.
“Maybe,” I say finally. “It’ll take time, and I’ll need to understand how these systems work, but... maybe.”
The relief that crosses his features is so profound it takes my breath away. And suddenly I understand—this isn’t just about his career or his cargo. This is about hundreds of lives depending on medications that only he can deliver.
“However,” I continue, moving closer to examine a particularly damaged section, “I’m going to need you to explain how this works. Every system, every component. I need to understand the logic before I can fix it.”
“Of course. Whatever you need.”
I reach for what looks like a primary power coupling, and his hand covers mine, stopping the movement.
“Not that one,” he says quietly. “Not without proper insulation.”
His hand is warm over mine, completely engulfing my fingers. The contact sends electricity racing up my arm, and I’m suddenly very aware of how close we’re standing, how his body heat seems to wrap around me in the confined space.
“Why?” I ask, looking up at him.
“It carries a quantum energy field that would be... intense for human nervous systems.” His thumb traces across my knuckles, abarely-there caress that makes my breath catch. “I would not want you to be hurt.”
The protective instinct in his voice, combined with the gentle touch, does something dangerous to my resolve. Three years, I remind myself. Three years of him watching, learning, wanting. Three years of restraint that’s clearly wearing thin now that I’m here, in his space, touching his things with obvious fascination.
“What would happen?” I ask, not pulling my hand away. “If I touched it?”
His eyes darken, pupils dilating as he stares down at our joined hands. “For humans? Likely unconsciousness. Possibly... other effects.”
“Other effects?”
“Quantum energy can stimulate certain neural pathways. Create heightened sensitivity, increased awareness of physical sensation.” His voice drops to something almost intimate. “It has been known to have... aphrodisiac properties.”
Heat pools low in my stomach at the implication. “Oh.”
“Yes. Oh.” His thumb continues its gentle movement across my skin, and I can feel my pulse accelerating. “Which is why proper precautions are essential.”
I should pull my hand away. Should focus on the technical problems, not the way his touch is making my skin feel too tight. Should remember that we have a crisis to solve and searching teams getting closer.
Instead, I find myself asking, “What kind of precautions?”
The question hangs in the air between us, loaded with implications neither of us is quite ready to address. His eyes hold mine, and I can see the want there, carefully controlled but definitely present.
