Page 23 of A Perfect Disaster

I glance at her out of the corner of my eye, holding the tablet against my chest.

“Do all your tactical solutions involve using your subordinates as human shields?”

“They’re not shields, Müller. It’s psychology applied to space,” she replies with a confidence that leaves me speechless. “And you’ve seen for yourself that it works.”

I don’t reply because I have no technical arguments to refute her. We move along the right flank of the stage, and I notice that the actual distance between the railing and the wiring casing is even smaller than what the original blueprint indicated. What a surprise.

“We’re going to have to try a little harder,” she jokes.

Just as I’m about to reply, Maika steps back to make way for a sailor dragging a protective tarp.

At that moment, the ship undergoes a subtle shift as it corrects its course. But Maika loses her footing, her boot slips, and she falls forward.

It all happens in a fraction of a second. Her hands search for a secure grip and cling to my forearms. The impact of her weight pushes me back until my back slams against the steel bulkhead by the bridge. And her body is pressed against mine.

The first thing that overwhelms me is a wave of heat, physical and disorienting. Then comes her scent, sharp and close, and the exact position of her lips, just a few centimeters from my mouth.

“Shit. Damn it. What do I do?”

The ambient noise fades away, replaced by the rhythmic sound of her breathing, which has become as rapid as my own. We hold each other’s gaze in silence; my eyes drift down to her mouth before forcing themselves back to her pupils, which have darkened completely. I feel the pressure of her fingers on my arms, and the absolute certainty that my defenses are crumbling at an alarming rate.

“Shit. Shit. Shit.”

I almost push her away and clear my throat. Luckily, the tablet hasn’t suffered any worse damage.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Sure,” I reply.

I look at her, hating my inability to hide the trembling of my own hands.

“It was the motion of the ship,” she says.

“I know.” We look at each other for a few seconds. “We’d better keep going.”

The atmosphere grows tense. My mind, usually methodical and efficient, refuses to process the technical readings and insists on replaying the texture of her skin and the proximity of her mouth on a loop.

“If we modify the passage barrier toward…” I stop myself as Maika walks down the narrow corridor.

“Helen?”

“What?” I reply, too quickly.

“I was asking if you’d prefer to station security checkpoints at the club’s entrances or keep the outer perimeter clear.”

It takes me a second longer than it should to pick up the thread of the conversation, still caught in the memory of the glint of her lips in the evening light.

“Keep the perimeter clear,” I manage to say. “But with direct communication to the bridge.”

“Understood.”

This is a tactical error with predictable consequences.

I know exactly where this path leads if I allow myself to give in to Maika Aranda; I learned that lesson the hard way. I’m not going to make the same mistake twice. No matter what’s happening around us.

Maika closes her folder as soon as we’re done and smiles at me.

“No, please. Don’t smile at me.”