Instead of pulling away, she does it again, watching my face as her touch sends fire through neural pathways designed for ship interface but currently being overwhelmed by proximity to her bio-electric field.
“Fiona,” I warn, but my voice lacks any real conviction.
“Does it hurt?”
“No.” The truth escapes before I can stop it. “It feels...”
“What?”
“Like you’re touching me everywhere at once.”
The words hang between us in the cramped space, heavy with implication and three years of suppressed desire. She’s still kneeling beside me, still touching the ship’s interface, still sending waves of sensation through my body with every movement of her fingers.
“We should...” I start, then lose the thread of rational thought as she traces a particularly sensitive pathway. “We should focus on the repairs.”
“Right. The repairs.” But she doesn’t move her hand away from the interface. If anything, she seems fascinated by the way the ship responds to her touch, the way the glowing circuits pulse brighter under her fingers.
I force myself to turn back to the navigation array, trying to ignore the way my body is reacting to her continued contact with the ship’s nervous system. “The guidance matrix interfaces here,” I explain, pointing to the central processing node. “But without the proper components...”
“You need to get to my garage,” she finishes. “To retrieve the capacitor that might work as a replacement.”
“Yes.” I risk a glance at her face, taking in the way her eyes have darkened slightly, the flush that’s spread across her cheeks. She’s affected by this proximity too, by the charged atmosphere and the knowledge of what her touch is doing to me through the ship’s interface.
“How long would the modifications take?”
“Hours. Maybe longer, depending on how well the Earth technology integrates with our quantum systems.” I turn to face her more fully, which is a mistake because it brings us even closer together in the confined space. “And that assumes the search teams do not find us while we work.”
“They think they’re looking for a monster,” she says quietly. “They don’t expect to find a courier trying to save lives.”
“No. They expect to find the creature that has been haunting their mountains for three years.” I meet her eyes. “Which I am.”
“You’re not a monster, Ja’war.”
The certainty in her voice, the way she says my name like she’s been practicing it, makes something clench in my chest. “How can you be certain?”
“Because monsters don’t spend three years ensuring lost travelers find safety. They don’t risk their careers to deliver medications to dying colonies.” She shifts position, accidentally pressing closer, and I have to grip the edge of the access panel to keep from reaching for her. “And they don’t look at someone like you’ve been looking at me.”
“How have I been looking at you?”
“Like I’m precious.” The admission comes out soft, vulnerable. “Like I’m something worth protecting.”
“You are.” The words escape before I can stop them, rough with three years of suppressed longing. “You are the most precious thing I have encountered in decades of traveling between worlds.”
Something shifts in her expression, surprise giving way to something warmer, more dangerous. “Ja’war...”
“I know it is too much,” I continue, unable to stop the words now that they’ve started. “I know the pressure of being declared someone’s fated mate, the weight of three years of watching, is overwhelming. But I need you to understand—the loneliness you spoke of, the years of solitude by choice? I have spent decades experiencing the same isolation, not by choice but by necessity.”
“Necessity?”
“I chose courier work after my family died,” I say quietly. “A mining accident on Guxaria Prime took my entire family cluster. I had no ties to home anymore, and this job offered something I thought I wanted—the freedom to explore the galaxy without attachments.” I lean back against the wall, suddenly exhausted by the weight of so many years alone. “What I did not anticipate was how that freedom would become a prison of isolation. I have not shared a meal with another person in three years. Have not had a conversation longer thansupply requisitions in longer than that. Have not touched or been touched by anyone since...”
I trail off, realizing how pathetic that sounds.
“Since when?” she asks gently.
“Since I chose courier work over family bonds eight years ago.” The admission tastes bitter. “I thought freedom of movement was worth the isolation. I thought the satisfaction of successful deliveries would be enough to fill the empty spaces.”
“But it wasn’t.”
