Chapter 5 #2
It hurt, watching that happiness. Not from jealousy, I was genuinely thrilled for her. But from the sharp awareness of my own loneliness, made sharper by three weeks of working in close proximity to someone I couldn't have.
"You look exhausted," Dana said as I dropped into the seat beside her. "Also covered in charcoal. What happened to the fancy holographic design systems?"
"Holographic systems can't capture spontaneity." I grabbed the food processor menu, ordered something that would keep my blood sugar stable without requiring thought. "How's Engineering?"
"Efficient. Productive. Boring without you there to catch everyone's mistakes." She bumped her shoulder against mine. "Er'dox says you're doing good work with Zor'go. Says the expansion designs are impressive."
"Er'dox talks about my work?"
"Er'dox talks about everything. Man cannot shut up once you get him comfortable." Dana's smile softened. "He's proud of you. They both are, him and Zor'go. Apparently, you're the first person who's ever successfully challenged Zor'go's designs without getting dismissed from the project."
My food arrived, some kind of protein synthesis that tasted vaguely like chicken if chicken had given up on flavor entirely. I ate anyway, my body demanding fuel even if my brain wanted to obsess over Dana's casual mention of Zor'go being proud of me.
"How are you?" Bea asked quietly. She'd been watching me with those assessing eyes that missed nothing, occupational hazard of being a trauma surgeon, probably. "Really."
"Tired. Overwhelmed. Terrified I'm going to screw up and waste everyone's time." I forced a smile. "The usual."
"That's not what I asked."
Elena snorted. "She asked if you're okay, not whether you're adequately anxious about professional failure. Those are different questions."
I looked at Elena—tall and sharp and vibrating with barely contained energy, the way she'd been for weeks now. She'd been distant since the bonding ceremony, spending most of her time in Security training with Vaxon, coming back to quarters tense and snapping at small provocations.
"Are you okay?" I asked her.
"Perfect. Living the dream. Stuck on an alien warship doing guard duty when I was supposed to be exploring new worlds." Her smile was all edges. "But sure, let's talk about your feelings about the sexy architect you're spending sixteen hours a day with."
"He's not sexy. He's my supervisor."
"He's eight and a half feet of crystalline silver perfection who looks at you like you hung the stars," Dana said. "And before you deny it, Er'dox mentioned that Zor'go's been different lately, almost pleasant. Direct quote."
My face burned. "It's professional."
"Professional doesn't make you blush like that."
"I don't blush."
"You're currently the color of a ripe tomato."
"Bea, help me out here."
Bea smiled, rare and genuine, the kind of expression that transformed her usually serious face into something warm. "Sorry. I'm with Dana on this one. You talk about him constantly. 'Zor'go calculated this.' 'Zor'go suggested that.' 'Zor'go's spatial analysis is revolutionary.' It's adorable."
"It's professional admiration."
"It's emotional involvement disguised as professional admiration," Elena corrected. "Which, hey, no judgment. We're all trapped on this ship. Might as well find someone who makes the imprisonment entertaining."
The bitterness in her voice cut through the teasing, leaving awkward silence in its wake. Dana opened her mouth to respond, but movement near the entrance caught my attention.
Er'dox had arrived, his massive frame navigating the crowded dining area with the easy confidence of someone completely comfortable in his skin. And behind him—
Zor'go.
My stomach did that complicated flip again, the one I kept pretending was just hunger or low blood sugar or anything other than attraction.
He'd changed his work tunic for something cleaner, his markings catching the overhead lights as he moved.
His ice-blue eyes scanned the room, found me, held contact for just a moment before he looked away.
That moment felt like an electric shock.
"Oh, you're screwed," Elena muttered.
"I'm professional."
"You're professionally screwed."
Er'dox reached our table first, his expression brightening when he saw Dana. The way they looked at each other made my chest tight, not from jealousy but from wanting that for myself, that certainty, that joy in someone else's presence.
"Mind if we join you?" Er'dox asked, already pulling out the chair beside Dana.
Zor'go stood slightly behind him, looking uncomfortable in a way I'd never seen before. Like he wasn't sure whether he was welcome, whether this was appropriate, whether he should maintain professional distance or—
"Sit," I said, gesturing to the empty chair beside me before I could overthink it.
He sat. Close enough that I could see the subtle variations in his marking patterns, could smell something that wasn't quite cologne but reminded me of ozone and metal and something cleaner. Close enough that my pulse kicked up noticeably.
This was fine. This was normal. Colleagues ate lunch together all the time.
"Jalina was just telling us how professional she is," Dana said with absolutely zero subtlety.
"She's very professional," Zor'go agreed. "Her courtyard designs demonstrate exceptional understanding of spatial psychology."
"See? Professional," I said.
"She also convinced me to draw with charcoal this morning," Zor'go continued, and something in his voice caught, not quite amusement but close. "Highly unprofessional tool. Completely imprecise. Results were interesting."
"You drew something?" Er'dox looked genuinely shocked. "With your hands? On paper?"
"Jalina insisted."
"Jalina corrupts," Dana said. "It's her superpower."
"I don't corrupt. I expand perspectives." I focused on my food, tried not to notice how close Zor'go's arm was to mine, and how his markings flickered every time I spoke. "There's a difference."
"The difference being?"
"Corruption implies moral degradation. Perspective expansion implies growth."
"Careful," Er'dox said to Zor'go. "She'll have you writing poetry next."
"Poetry has mathematical structure. I could appreciate poetry."
"You could appreciate anything with mathematical structure," I said. "You probably love sonnets."
"Sonnets are fourteen lines with specific rhyme schemes. They're essentially algorithms for emotional expression."
"That's the least romantic description of poetry I've ever heard."
"Romance isn't incompatible with structure."
The word romance hung in the air between us, suddenly loaded with meaning neither of us had intended. I felt my face heat again, saw his markings flicker rapidly, watched him look away like he'd said something inappropriate.
"Anyway," I said too loudly, "the expansion project is progressing. We're ahead of schedule on the neighborhood clusters."
"Because you work sixteen-hour days," Bea said. "Both of you."
"Eighteen-hour days," Zor'go corrected. "But the work requires intensity."
"The work requires balance. You're both going to burn out."
"We're fine."
"You fell asleep at your desk twice this week."
I glared at Bea. "Who told you that?"
"Dana mentioned it. Who heard it from Er'dox. Who heard it from someone on the Operations team." Bea's expression was pure doctor-concern. "You need actual rest. Both of you."
"Rest when the project is complete," Zor'go said.
"Rest before you collapse mid-project and set everything back by weeks." Bea pulled up her datapad, made some notes. "I'm scheduling both of you for mandatory sleep cycles. Eight hours minimum. Non-negotiable."
"You can't mandate sleep cycles for Operations staff."
"I'm Chief Medical Officer. I can mandate anything related to crew health." She looked up, her gray eyes sharp. "And you're exhibiting signs of chronic exhaustion. So you'll either comply willingly or I'll talk to Captain Tor'van about medical leave. Your choice."
Zor'go's markings went very still. "That's unnecessary."
"Then prove it. Take actual breaks. Eat regular meals. Sleep in your quarters instead of your office." Bea's voice softened slightly. "I know the project is important. But you won't finish it if you work yourself into medical collapse."
The tension at the table had shifted from teasing to genuinely concerned, and I felt exposed under the weight of everyone's attention.
Like they could see through my professional facade to the complicated tangle underneath, the loneliness and longing and absolute terror of caring about someone I couldn't have.
"Fine," I said. "Mandated rest. Eight hours. I'll comply."
"Zor'go?"
He looked at me, something unreadable in his ice-blue eyes. "If Jalina complies, I'll comply."
"That's not how medical mandates work," Bea said. "You don't get to make it conditional."
"Nevertheless."
The word hung there, and I realized what he was doing. Making himself accountable to me, creating a structure where we'd have to coordinate rest schedules, where we'd be responsible for each other's wellbeing beyond professional obligation.
It should have been manipulative. Instead, it felt like care.
"Then we'll both comply," I said quietly. "Eight hours. Starting tonight."
"Good." Bea made more notes. "I'll check in weekly. And I'm serious about the rest breaks, actual breaks, not working through lunch while calling it rest."
The conversation shifted after that, moving to safer topics with Dana's latest engineering challenge, Elena's frustration with Security protocols, Bea's ongoing research into cross-species medical practices.
I participated when required, but most of my attention stayed on the man beside me, on the subtle flickering of his markings, on the way his hand rested on the table just inches from mine.