Chapter 8 #2
When did I stop noticing that?
The observation deck was quieter, designed for contemplation rather than traffic.
The massive transparent panels offered an unobstructed view of the stars.
We'd dropped out of warp an hour ago, giving the engines time to cool before the next jump.
The void looked almost peaceful at sublight speeds, stars distant and eternal.
Jalina sat in the corner she favored, exactly where I'd expected her. But she wasn't alone.
Dana and Bea flanked her, the three human women huddled together in a configuration I'd seen before as mutual support, shared vulnerability, the physical closeness humans seemed to need when processing emotional complexity.
I should leave. This was clearly private.
But Jalina looked up before I could retreat, her dark eyes meeting mine across the deck. Her expression shifted with surprise, then something warmer that made my markings flicker in response.
She said something to Dana and Bea, then stood and walked toward me.
I met her halfway.
"Hi," she said, adjusting her glasses with one charcoal-stained finger. The gesture was so quintessentially Jalina that something in my chest contracted.
"Hello," I managed. "I didn't mean to interrupt."
"You're not. We were just..." She glanced back at her friends, who were watching with undisguised interest. "Talking about the rescue mission. The one Captain Tor'van announced at the morning briefing."
Right. The mission. We were scheduled to investigate a distress beacon from a mining vessel in the Contested Reach, dangerous territory, but Captain Tor'van never ignored legitimate distress calls.
"Your friends are concerned," I observed.
"Dana's practical. She wants to know the engineering specs of the rescue shuttle.
Bea's worried about potential casualties and whether medical supplies are adequate.
" Jalina smiled slightly. "I'm just thinking about the miners.
Whether they have families. Whether they'll have somewhere to go after we rescue them. "
Of course she was. Because Jalina didn't just see beings as resources to be efficiently relocated. She saw them as individuals with histories and hopes and futures that needed consideration.
"They'll have somewhere to go," I said. "Your expansion project ensures that. Mothership will have capacity for another three hundred beings by the time we return."
"Because we built it together." She stepped closer, close enough that I could smell the faint scent of charcoal and the floral soap she used. "Zor'go, about last night—"
"You don't need to explain." The words came faster than I intended. "I understand if you regret—"
"I don't regret it." Her interruption was firm. "I've been thinking about it all day. About what it means that I kissed you. About what I want." She took a breath. "About whether you want the same thing."
My markings were flickering rapidly now, betraying my agitation. I forced them to stillness through sheer will. "What do you want?"
"I want to have dinner with you. Not a working meal where we pretend to focus on traffic patterns while stealing glances at each other.
An actual dinner. Just us." Her hands twisted together as nervous, vulnerable.
"I want to learn about your family on Garmuth'e.
About why you chose Mothership. About what you dream about when you're not designing cities.
" She looked up at me, her brown eyes impossibly open.
"I want to know you, Zor'go. Not just work with you. "
The observation deck felt too small suddenly.
Too full of possibilities I didn't know how to categorize or control.
Every instinct I'd cultivated over decades demanded I retreat to something safe, suggest a professional working dinner, maintain proper boundaries, protect us both from the complications of deeper connection.
But Kex'tar's words echoed in my mind: When was the last time you let yourself actually occupy a space instead of just designing it?
"There's a space station," I heard myself say.
"On the edge of the Virnak System. We'll pass within range during our return from the rescue mission.
It hosts an architectural exhibition of buildings from seventeen different species, structures that sing and grow and exist in ways impossible on stable planets.
" I paused, committing fully to this unprecedented deviation from routine.
"I've never attended. The timing never aligned with mission schedules.
But I could arrange shore leave. If you'd accompany me. "
Jalina's face transformed. The smile that spread across her features was luminous, incandescent, powerful enough to recalibrate every priority I'd ever established.
"A date," she said, testing the word.
"A date," I confirmed, though my linguistic database couldn't quite convey the weight the term carried in human culture.
"Yes." No hesitation. "Yes, I'd love to."
The relief that flooded through me was disproportionate to the simple agreement. This was just dinner. Just an exhibition. Just two individuals choosing to spend time together outside professional obligations.
Except it wasn't simple at all.
It was the first time I'd deliberately chosen personal connection over professional efficiency. The first time I'd admitted—even to myself—that I wanted something beyond optimal designs and elegant systems.
I wanted Jalina.
Not as a collaborator. Not as a project partner.
As someone who made me see the universe differently. As someone who made me want to be more than the sum of my accomplishments.
"I should let you return to your friends," I said, though leaving her presence felt actively painful.
"Or," Jalina countered, "you could stay for a few minutes. Look at the stars with us. Dana and Bea won't mind."
They absolutely would mind. I saw Dana's knowing smirk and Bea's analytical assessment from across the deck. But Jalina's hand extended toward mine, an invitation rather than a demand, and I found myself accepting it.
Her fingers were impossibly small in mine. Delicate in a way that should have made me terrified of my own strength, but instead made me hyperaware of how carefully I needed to hold her. How much trust she was placing in me.
We walked back to her corner together, still holding hands, and something about that simple gesture felt more significant than any blueprint I'd ever designed.
Dana's smirk intensified. "Zor'go. Nice of you to join us."
"Dana," I acknowledged, settling beside Jalina on the observation bench. The fit was awkward, Zandovian proportions didn't integrate well with human-scaled furniture, but Jalina adjusted naturally, tucking herself against my side like she belonged there.
Like we fit.
Bea studied me with her clinical gray eyes. "So. You and Jalina."
It wasn't a question, but it demanded a response.
"Yes," I said simply. Because complexity could wait. Right now, sitting in a space I'd designed but never truly appreciated, with Jalina's warmth pressed against my side and stars streaming past the viewport, simplicity was enough.
"Good," Bea said, as if rendering a medical diagnosis. "She smiles more when you're around. Try not to ruin that."
"I'll endeavor not to."
Dana laughed. "God, you two even sound alike now. It's adorable and terrifying."
Jalina squeezed my hand. "Ignore them. They're just jealous because they've already done the terrifying early dating phase and we get to experience it fresh."
"Dana and Er'dox's courtship involved a ship malfunction and near-death experience," I pointed out. "I'm hoping our progression will be less catastrophic."
"The rescue mission is in three days," Dana countered. "The Contested Reach is notorious for raider activity and unstable asteroid fields. You'll probably end up saving Jalina's life or vice versa. It's the Mothership way."
The observation unsettled me more than it should have.
Not because I doubted my ability to protect Jalina.
I'd tear apart any threat that approached her.
But because Dana was right. Mothership's missions were inherently dangerous.
And Jalina would volunteer for the rescue team because that's who she was.
Someone who saw beings in need and needed to help.
"You're worried," Jalina murmured, quiet enough that only I could hear.
"I'm calculating risk scenarios."
"Stop calculating. Just be here with me."
The request should have been impossible. My mind never stopped calculating, assessing, designing. It's what made me exceptional at my work.
But I looked down at Jalina, at her open expression and the trust in her dark eyes, and consciously chose to set aside the projections and probability analyses.
Just for this moment.
Just for her.
We sat together as Mothership hurtled through the void toward the Contested Reach, toward the rescue mission, toward whatever complications awaited us.
The expansion project waited in my office, half-complete and demanding attention.
Duty protocols suggested I return to work, maximize productivity during these final hours before the mission.
Instead, I stayed.
Dana and Bea resumed their conversation, something about medical supply configurations and rescue protocols.
Jalina leaned more heavily against my side, her breathing gradually synchronizing with mine, a biological phenomenon I'd read about but never experienced.
The harmonization of respiratory patterns between bonded individuals.
We weren't bonded. Not officially. Bonding required formal ceremonies and biological compatibility assessments and a dozen other procedural steps.
But sitting there, feeling Jalina's heartbeat through the points where our bodies connected, I understood what Kex'tar had been trying to tell me.
I was already falling.
Had been falling since she'd walked into my office six months ago with her ridiculous paper notebook and charcoal-stained fingers and called my life's work "storage units."
The terrifying part wasn't the falling.
It was realizing I didn't want to stop.