It made Torian feel small and stupid for having hope. She shoved her hands in her pockets. “You were right, okay? Rhymarrans don’t care about us station folk, andI’mthe idiot for thinking they might. Why are you still here, Amelia?”
“That’s not—” Amelia cut herself off, growling a bit. “You’re not wrong for having hope. I just… I tried to warn you.”
I told you so.It instantly soured Torian’s remaining goodwill, left her feeling bitter for even thinking this interaction with Amelia would end positively. Her words were tight. “Consider me warned. Now, you dropped me off at a space station. Your good deed is complete. I can handle this alone.”
Amelia’s expression faltered, and at that moment, a person pushing a hover-cart filled with bright red boxes separated them. The cart salesman asked, “Sparklers? Station-safe for Milk Day!”
“It’s Snuggling Day,” Torian said.
The salesman cursed, checked a calendar taped to his cart, and forced a hasty smile. “Ah, yes! Snuggling Day! Care for a hug? And a sparkler?”
“No, thanks,” Amelia said.
Her refusal spurred Torian into wanting a sparkler. Might as well findsomejoy out of today. She fished into her pocket and pulled out a tin bar, one of the cheapest forms of currency. “What does a tin buy me?”
“Your greatest desires!” The salesman snatched it up and handed her exactly one sparkler. It had an automatic lighting mechanism, and Torian started walking again as she flicked the switch. The sparkler flared to life, glowing purple, blue, green at the end of the stick.
Amelia followed, subtly directing Torian into an even smaller alleyway. “Was that necessary?”
“Not for Captain Perrosk, the stealer of fun.” Torian’s tone was rough. “But I’ve had a bad day. Seriously, Amelia. You can leave.”
“Do you even know where we’re going?”
“A mechanic, I presume.”
“Not just any mechanic. A fucking prodigy.” Between the narrow walls of the alley, the festivities faded away, and finally it felt like they were alone. The sparkler illuminated the dark space, and Amelia’s blue eyes shone. “I know you hate me. Just let me get you flying again. Then I’ll go my way, and you’ll go yours. All right?”
The way she phrased that made Torian feel icky, unsettled. “I don’thateyou. I just… want to stop feeling inadequate around you.”
The color drained from Amelia’s face. At the same moment, the sparkler died, its light fizzling. Torian dropped it into another nearly full trash bin, then shoved her hands in her pockets.
Amelia clearly didn’t know what to say. They walked for several more minutes, the tension between them increasing with every step, before Amelia stopped at a simple metal door. Two raps, a pause, then five more. She wouldn’t meet Torian’s gaze while they waited.
Torian didn’t blame her.
She thought it’d be nice to see Amelia again, but this… this was exactly what she remembered. Six months of pining that caused Torian to read volumes into every interaction, followed by a kiss, a disaster, a demotion, and another six months of forced professionalism. All of it capped with one final, failed goodbye.
And now this. She shouldn’t have expected anything different.
Aclickechoed, and Amelia didn’t wait for permission to push open the door. “Lyric doesn’t love visitors,” she said, “but they’re the best mechanic in the solar system. Trust me.”
Torian nodded distantly, gaping at the paradise beyond the hallway. What she’d thought was a small apartment was actually a two-story workspace, with expensive engine parts littering every bare surface. But what was better were the plants that hung fromevery corner: leafy ivy and stiff snake plants and potted trees and even a couple ferns.
It was a veritable utopia. Moss would love it.
“This is amazing,” Torian breathed.
A person slid out from underneath a large maintenance bot, pushing to their feet. Considering this person, Lyric, “didn’t love visitors,” Torian had assumed they’d be hostile—and that was wholly untrue, apparently.
Lyric didn’t seem to have an aggressive bone in their body. They averted their gaze, cautiously curious as they snuck a glance at Torian. When they saw her looking, they wrung their gloved hands together, forcing a twitchy smile, and stared pointedly at the ground. “Um… h-hello.”
Their skin was a deep mahogany interrupted by symmetrical white spots. It was clearly a pigmentation disruption—Celise had studied this in medical school. What was it called? Vitiligo, Torian recalled.
She hoped that wasn’t why Lyric felt awkward.
To make them more comfortable, Torian said, “Hello! I’m Torian.” Then she pivoted into her burning question: “Did you grow all of these yourself?”
This place looked like something on Rhymarra… or on her own starship, designed by Moss. To grow all these plants in space… this mechanic must be a wizard. Torian approached a calathea, stroking its soft leaves.
