Chapter 7
Jalina
The workshop door wouldn't open.
I stood outside Zor'go's office in the Operations sector, my hand hovering over the access panel, and tried to summon courage I didn't actually possess. Three times I'd almost walked away. Three times I'd forced myself to stay.
We'd just saved two hundred beings. He'd lifted me off the ground in front of the entire bridge crew. Our faces had been inches apart, his crystalline blue markings shimmering so bright I could see them reflected in his eyes, and then—
"Excellent work, Architect Chauncy."
Like I was a colleague. Like he hadn't been about to kiss me in front of Captain Tor'van and half the command staff.
I pressed the access panel harder than necessary. The door slid open.
Zor'go stood at his holographic workstation, fingers dancing through three-dimensional projections of the expansion sector. He didn't look up. Didn't acknowledge my presence at all, even though the door chime had announced me clearly enough.
"The ventilation calculations for section seven need revision," he said, still not looking at me. "Your courtyard design creates thermal pockets that will destabilize airflow during shift rotations. I've noted the corrections in the shared project files."
Professional. Distant. Like the past two hours hadn't happened.
Something hot and sharp twisted in my chest—part anger, part hurt, part something that felt dangerously close to heartbreak even though that was ridiculous because you couldn't have your heart broken by someone who'd never actually claimed it in the first place.
I pushed my glasses up my nose, a nervous habit I hated. "We need to talk."
"The thermal pocket issue requires immediate—"
"About what happened on the bridge."
His fingers stilled in the holographic projection. The crystalline markings along his arms flickered once, rapidly, then went dark. Complete stillness, complete control. He was eight and a half feet of coiled tension pretending to be calm.
"Nothing happened on the bridge," he said finally. "We completed a successful rescue operation. Captain Tor'van commended the team's performance."
"You embraced me."
"A momentary lapse in professional judgment. It won't happen again."
The words were so carefully neutral they felt like a slap.
I moved closer, positioning myself where he'd have to look at me unless he physically turned away.
The workshop smelled like ozone and metal, familiar scents from our weeks of collaboration, and underneath the earthy and warm that was distinctly Zor'go.
"Why do you keep doing this?" I kept my voice steady even though my hands were shaking.
"We work together perfectly. We finish each other's sentences.
You know what I'm going to sketch before I put charcoal to paper.
And then the second things get personal, you retreat behind this wall of 'professionalism' like I'm something dangerous. "
"You're not dangerous." His gaze finally met mine, and the intensity there made my breath catch. "The situation is dangerous."
"What situation? Two colleagues who happen to work well together?"
"Two beings from incompatible species developing inappropriate attachment."
The clinical phrasing stung worse than outright rejection. "Inappropriate. Is that what you call what happens when we design together? When we spent three hours yesterday creating that public gathering space and neither of us noticed we'd missed two meals because we were so absorbed in the work?"
"That's professional collaboration."
"That's what you tell yourself." I was getting angry now, frustration bleeding through my usual tendency to avoid conflict.
"You tell yourself it's professional when you remember how I take my stimulant beverage.
Professional when you adjust the holographic height so I don't have to strain to reach the upper quadrants.
Professional when your markings light up every time I walk into a room. "
The markings in question flickered traitorously, a rapid cascade of crystalline blue running from his collarbone to his wrists. He noticed, looked down at his arms like they'd betrayed him, and deliberately dimmed them through what had to be sheer force of will.
"Physiological responses aren't indicators of conscious intention."
"Stop." I moved even closer, close enough that I had to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact.
The size difference between us had never felt quite this pronounced, but I refused to be intimidated.
"Stop analyzing and deflecting and hiding behind technical language.
Just answer me honestly: do you feel something for me? Yes or no."
The silence stretched so long I thought he might not answer at all. His ice-blue eyes searched my face, and I watched something like pain flicker across his angular features before he locked it down again.
"What I feel is irrelevant."
"That's not a no."
"Jalina—"
"Answer the question, Zor'go. Do you feel something for me?"
His jaw clenched. One hand flexed at his side, those long precise fingers curling into a fist before deliberately straightening. When he spoke, his voice had dropped to something almost raw beneath its careful control.
"I feel too much. It distracts from duty. From focus. From the work that matters."
The admission hit me square in the chest, stealing my breath for a moment. Not a no. Definitely not a no. The opposite of a no, wrapped in fear and obligation and that damned Zandovian tendency to prioritize function over feeling.
"You think feeling something for me makes you weaker," I said slowly, understanding clicking into place. "You think caring about me compromises your ability to do your job."
"I think," he said carefully, "that I have responsibilities to this ship and its crew that supersede personal desires. I think that my role requires absolute clarity of purpose, and emotional entanglement creates complications that could prove catastrophic. I think—"
"You think you have to be perfect. Untouchable. Some kind of ideal Zandovian who never wants anything for himself." I shook my head, feeling my hair slip from its attempt at a bun. "That's not strength, Zor'go. That's just fear."
His markings flared bright before he could suppress them. "You don't understand—"
"Then help me understand. Explain why letting yourself feel something is so terrifying that you'd rather push me away than risk it."
"Because I've seen what happens when duty becomes secondary to personal attachment.
" The words came out harsh, almost angry.
"My uncle served on a cargo vessel. He had a bonded partner on crew.
When pirates attacked, when critical decisions needed to be made, his judgment was compromised by his desperation to protect her specifically rather than the ship generally.
Forty-seven beings died because he prioritized one person over the collective good. "
The pain in his voice was old, deep. I wanted to touch him, offer comfort, but sensed he needed to finish.
"I swore when I took this position that I would never allow personal considerations to compromise my effectiveness.
That every decision would serve the greater good of Mothership and its inhabitants.
And then you..." He trailed off, those ice-blue eyes searching my face with something like desperation.
"You sketch these impossible visions and somehow make them functional.
You see beauty in spaces I designed for pure utility.
You adjust your glasses when you're thinking and bite your lip when you're concentrating and your entire face lights up when a concept clicks into place and I—"
He stopped himself, physically turning away, shoulders rigid with tension.
"I catch myself watching you instead of working," he finished quietly. "I find excuses to extend our meetings. I redesign calculations just to have reason to consult with you. My focus, my discipline, everything I've built my reputation on, it's compromised. By you. Because of you."
The confession left me reeling. This wasn't rejection. This was someone drowning in feelings they'd been taught to mistrust, someone so convinced that caring made them dangerous they'd rather cut themselves off than risk it.
I moved around to face him again, refusing to let him hide. "Zor'go, look at me."
He did, reluctantly, and the vulnerability in his expression made my throat tight.
"What if," I said carefully, "feeling something isn't a distraction? What if it makes the work better?"
"That's not—"
"Think about our project. Really think about it.
" I gestured at the holographic designs surrounding us.
"We create better together because we trust each other.
Because I know you'll catch my impractical ideas and ground them in reality, and you trust me to push you past pure function into something that actually nurtures the beings who'll live there.
That trust, that collaboration exists because we care about each other, not despite it. "
His markings flickered uncertainly, a visual representation of his internal struggle.
"You want a practical argument?" I pressed on.
"Fine. The courtyard that saved the cargo ship calculations today, the one with the thermal pocket you're suddenly criticizing.
I designed that three weeks ago. You approved it.
You said it was brilliant. The only thing that's changed is your fear that caring about me makes you incompetent.
But you're not incompetent, Zor'go. You're the most dedicated, brilliant planner I've ever worked with.
And you were that person when you lifted me off the ground on the bridge.
You were that person when your markings lit up because you were happy we succeeded together.
You were that person when you looked at me like—"
I stopped, suddenly uncertain. Like what? Like I mattered? Like I was something precious?
"Like you wanted to kiss me," I finished quietly.