“Do I?” Ginzar’s eyes dance with mischief. “What about the eighteen different versions of your introduction speech? Or that time you asked if bringing spare engine parts would count as romantic gestures?”
Fiona turns to stare at me, and I can feel her delight through our bond like warm honey. “Eighteen versions?”
“Nineteen,” I correct, because accuracy matters. “The final version proved adequate.”
“Oh honey,” Ginzar shakes his head with fond exasperation, “version twelve was ‘Greetings, I am an alien who has been observing your mechanical competence and would like to render assistance while also declaring my admiration.’ I saved all of them for posterity.”
“That was a rough draft,” I protest, but Fiona’s laughter fills the docking bay, bright and joyous.
“I need to see this collection,” she declares. “For academic purposes.”
“Already copied to a data pad for you,” Ginzar grins. “Consider it a wedding gift.”
Before either of us can respond to that presumption, a voice cuts through the ambient noise like a plasma cutter through hull plating: “Ginzar! What did I tell you about conducting personal business in my loading bays?”
We turn to see a compact figure striding toward us with military precision. Madge “Mother” Morrison, Senior OOPS Dispatcher and unofficial ruler of The Junction, approaches with steel-gray hair pulled into an immaculate bun and piercing blue eyes that miss absolutely nothing.
“Mother!” Ginzar’s whole demeanor shifts to something resembling a guilty teenager caught raiding the pantry. “Just greeting some friends, nothing more.”
“Uh-huh.” Mother’s gaze flicks over our group with practiced assessment, lingering on the obvious bond-marks around our wrists. “So this is the courier who went rogue and the mechanic who made him honest. Heard about your little Christmas adventure from the incident reports.”
“Ma’am,” Fiona steps forward with the respect due to obvious authority. “We weren’t planning to stay long—”
“Relax, kid. You’re not in trouble.” Mother’s expression softens fractionally. “Just keeping an eye on my people. Especially this one—” she jerks a thumb at Ginzar “—since he’s got a talent for attracting strays.”
“Hey now,” Ginzar protests withwounded dignity, “I provide essential morale services!”
“You provide sugar crashes and romantic advice of questionable quality,” Mother retorts, but there’s obvious affection in her tone. “Speaking of which—Ja’war, right? Your partner here’s been pestering my staff about ‘appropriate human wedding traditions’ for the past month. You planning to make an honest woman of her or what?”
The question catches us both off guard. Fiona nearly chokes on nothing. “We haven’t really discussed—”
“Actually,” Fiona interrupts, her voice carrying that tone that means she has made a decision, “we should talk about that. Soon.”
Mother’s eyebrows rise. “Smart girl. Don’t let him overthink it—males of any species will analyze a romantic gesture to death if you give them half a chance.”
“Wise counsel,” I agree, earning an elbow to the ribs from Fiona.
“Right then.” Mother turns back to Ginzar with narrow-eyed suspicion. “You. Office. Now. We need to discuss your latest request for ‘cultural research’ cargo space.”
“It’s for scientific purposes!” Ginzar calls over his shoulder as she herds him away with the efficiency of someone who has managed unruly couriers for decades. “Wedding planning requires extensive cross-cultural analysis!”
“Save it for someone who doesn’t know you hoard holiday sweets like a sugar dragon,” Mother shoots back, but I catch her slight smile before she turns away.
As they disappear into the administrative levels, Fiona and I are left standing in the docking bay, surrounded by the organized chaos of The Junction’s operations.
“I like them,” Fiona says finally. “Both of them. Mother’s terrifying in the best possible way, and Ginzar...”
“Is going to plan us a wedding whether we officially ask him or not,” I finish. “He has probably already begun composing guest lists.”
“Good.” Fiona turns in my arms, her hands settling on my chest where she can feel the steady rhythm of my dual hearts. “Because I think it’s time we made this official. Human-style ceremony, Xarian bonding ritual, the whole works.”
“You are certain?” I search her face for any trace of doubt. “A formal union means—”
“It means I get to keep you forever, and you get to stop worrying about whether I’m going to change my mind.” She rises on her toes to press a quick kiss to my jaw. “Plus, I want to see what kind of cosmic spectacle Ginzar creates when he plans a wedding.”
Through the observation window, I can see Mother’s office, where animated gestures suggest Ginzar is already deep into enthusiastic explanation of something that probably involves cinnamon and cultural fusion.
“He will be insufferable,” I warn.
