“So what happens now?” I ask eventually.
“Now we deliver medical supplies and save several hundred lives. Then we report to Mother and probably get yelled at for unauthorized bonding ceremonies during active missions.”
“And after that?”
His arms tighten around me. “After that, we choose our next route together. There are entire galaxies to explore, impossible technologies to repair, and a universe full of people who need things delivered safely.” He tilts my chin up, meeting my eyes. “Interested in seeing it all with me?”
I think about my garage, my carefully constructed isolation, the small safe life I’ve built in the mountains. Then I think about starlight and alien biology and a man who’s waited three years just to give methe choice. About cities floating in gas giant atmospheres and markets that exist in folded space. About a universe so much bigger and more wonderful than I ever imagined.
“Try to stop me,” I say, and kiss my bonded mate under a canopy of stars.
The ship purrs around us, carrying us toward our future at impossible speeds, and for the first time in my life, I know exactly where I belong.
11
Ja'war Epilogue
Sixmonthslater
The docking bay of The Junction carries the familiar chaos of the galaxy’s busiest courier hub—ozone from quantum drives, metallic tang of ship hulls, the raised voices of a dozen species conducting business in half as many languages. But underneath it all, warm and unmistakable, is the spiced aroma that means only one thing: Ginzar has been here.
“That smells like Christmas morning had a baby with a bakery,” Fiona murmurs from beside me, her voice carrying that note of wonderthat still surprises me after six months of traveling the galaxy together. The claiming bite has long since faded, replaced by the permanent bond-marks that spiral around both our wrists—intricate patterns that pulse with shared heartbeat when we touch.
“That,” I tell her, steering our cargo hauler toward Bay 94, “is what contentment smells like.”
Through the viewport, I spot him immediately: a mountain of golden-brown muscle orchestrating cargo transfers with the easy authority of someone who has turned logistics into an art form. Ginzar of the Holiday Routes stands 6’4” in his specialized thermal gear, dark hair gleaming with copper highlights under The Junction’s harsh industrial lighting. Even from this distance, I can see the decorative scarring along his arms—darker patterns that catch the light like icing on some massive, perfectly crafted confection.
Fiona presses closer to the viewport, studying the figure with professional interest. “Wow. He’s huge—and those markings along his arms are beautiful. Cultural significance?”
“Decorative scarring that indicates family lineage and personal achievements,” I explain. “His species takes great pride in visual displays of identity.”
“He looks like he stepped out of a Christmas card,” she observes with gentle amusement. “I can see why he gravitates toward holiday freight.”
“The resemblance to Earth’s seasonal imagery is... coincidental,” I assure her. “His species evolved on a world where thermal regulation and nutritional processing are survival advantages. Though Ginzar has become quite fond of the comparison.”
We dock with the practiced efficiency of a team that has learned to work in perfect synchronization. Fiona handles the technicalinterfaces while I manage the quantum systems—our hybrid approach to space travel has become something of a legend among OOPS personnel. The first human-Xarian courier team, they call us. Though Fiona prefers “mechanical engineer with a really interesting commute.”
The cargo bay doors hiss open, and suddenly the warm spice scent intensifies, accompanied by a voice like hot cider and brown sugar: “Well, well! Look what the winter winds blew in. Ja’war, brother, you’re looking positively domestic these days.”
Ginzar approaches with arms spread wide, amber eyes literally brightening with joy—a trait of his species that never fails to convey genuine emotion. His smile reveals teeth that are perfectly white and slightly pointed, designed for processing the high-energy foods his metabolism requires.
“Ginzar,” I clasp his forearm in the traditional greeting, feeling the warmth that radiates from his skin like fresh-baked bread. “You smell like you have been sampling the cargo again.”
“Guilty as charged!” His laugh is rich and warm, completely different from my own reserved tones. “Had a containment breach in the Altairian spice shipment. Quality control is a dangerous job, but someone’s gotta do it, right?”
He turns to Fiona with genuine warmth that immediately puts beings at ease. “And you must be the miracle worker who taught our stubborn winter ghost the difference between watching and living.”
To her credit, Fiona steps forward without hesitation, offering her hand in the human custom. “Fiona Davis. I’ve heard way too much about you.”
Ginzar takes her hand gently, and I watch his expression shift to something approaching reverence as her scent reaches him—still touched with traces of my mark, but also carrying her own uniquesignature of motor oil, coffee, and the indefinable essence that first captured my attention.
“Sweet stars above,” he breathes, his accent making the words sound like a blessing. “No wonder he watched you for three years. Girl, you smell like home and adventure all rolled into one perfect package.”
“Oh.” Fiona blinks, clearly not expecting such directness. “That’s... specific.”
Ginzar glances at me with obvious amusement. “Didn’t tell her about your epic romantic crisis, did you? This man—” he gestures at me with theatrical despair “—sent me approximately a thousand emergency messages over three years. ‘Ginzar, what constitutes appropriate human courtship? Is machinery-themed gift-giving culturally acceptable? Should I perhaps compose an introductory poem?’”
I feel heat rise in my cheeks—an automatic response to embarrassment that Fiona has learned to find endearing. “You exaggerate the frequency of my communications.”
