28. Josie
JOSIE
I ’m standing in the hangar bay before dawn, harsh floodlights painting every edge in high contrast, the clang of ship plating as real as my heartbeat.
The engines of the Hellfighter’s flagship rumble in the background, but it’s the softness of Dayn’s hand in mine that grounds me.
There’s no official paperwork. No judge in a robe.
Just us, an honored fire team forming a rough semicircle, and a handful of witnesses who’ve weathered wars with hearts scarred and hopeful.
I’m wearing my favorite utility belt—pouches still cracked with solder and oil stains—and a dress I welded from composite fabric back on Snowblossom.
It’s practical, yet something about the shimmer of the weave makes me feel luminous.
Dayn stands opposite me in his combat armor, every scar molded into the plating, each dent a mark of survival.
He looks more vulnerable than any paper ring could prove.
Dowron leans against the wall, arms crossed. He smirks at us, muttering loud enough for us to hear, “I give it three years before one of them detonates something on accident.”
I elbow Dayn and grin. Garrus clears his throat loudly and raises a fluted glass.
“All right, everyone—this is quasi-official, so I get to officiate. I propose a toast: here’s to Josie and Dayn, mad, brilliant, combustible—or, as I prefer, un-fuck-up-able.
Do not, under any circumstances, make babies right now. We cannot handle more of you.”
Laughs ripple through the team. I blink back tears I didn’t know were building, laughing too: “Noted, Garrus.”
Dayn tightens his grip on my hand. He pulls a ring out of his gauntlet—a band forged from salvaged starship plating, its edges are sleek, jagged in places, and etched with Shorcu runes I'd helped him translate. He slips it onto my finger, and the fit is perfect.
“When I proposed, it was with a bolt from our pump,” he says quietly, voice rich and reverent. “This is because we don’t rely on fancy things to define us. We rely on love and lunacy. And you.”
My chest squeezes so tight I have to swallow. “You’re the best mistake I’ve ever made,” I tell him, voice crackling.
He grins like he’s high on hope and gunpowder. “And you’re the reason I’m still more man than weapon.”
Garrus raises his glass once more. “To survival. To chaos. To unexpected family. And to not detonate anything… yet.”
We all clink glasses. The moment feels tender and apocalyptic all at once.
It’s ours—realer than any law, truer than any emotional confession.
In this murky hangar, with smoke traces from recent drills lingering in the air and the scent of hot metal he hums back.
We brush fingertips against each other’s scars—mechanical, physical, emotional. I feel his breath rattle my ear, and I whisper, “You are the calm I didn’t know I needed.”
He tightens his arms. “And you’re my reason I wake up still in love.” His lips press to my forehead. “You’re not a mistake. You’re my miracle.”
I laugh in a whisper. “We’re both pretty damn messy.”
He smirks. “Perfectly messy.”
As the engines hum to life and the observation deck glows with soft instrumentation lights, our souls hum a quiet harmony. I press a kiss to his knuckles, the ring there shining in the dim light.
He tucks me gently into his arms. We fall asleep that way—no battle cries, no frantic fear. Just warmth, soft breaths, and tenuous promises beneath a sky woven with stars.
Tonight, we rest. Tomorrow, who knows? But right here, right now, we are enough—and together, we’re unstoppable.
I wake to the hum of the ship’s life support systems, bright morning light spilling through the observation port.
My fingers sting from last night’s kiss, and the ring Dayn slipped on my finger feels as real as the beat of his heart against my chest. I turn, expecting his form still cradled beside me—but the bunk is empty.
In my pocket, my comm blinks: an incoming message.
I tap it open, breath hitching as I read.
“Josie McClintock, graduate and alumna—Novaria Academy of the Sciences hereby invites you to return as Visiting Professor of Applied Exoplanet Engineering and Resistance Technology. Your knowledge, experience, and leadership are exactly what our students need in these critical times. Reply by docking cycle Delta-3 to confirm.”
My throat tightens. This is everything I once craved—prestige, stability, a place among scholars and tech-savvy peers. I can almost feel the polished hallways, the hum of data displays, the weight of a chalk-dusted lab coat. It’s heady. It’s promising.
But then I hear Dayn’s voice drifting from the corridor—industrial and musical in a way that shouldn’t make sense: he’s humming one of my made-up songs.
I follow the sound, snaking through corridors until I find him in the armory bay, polishing his knives, blades glinting a stark tribute to his craftsmanship and past. I watch him carefully inspect the edges, almost reverently, as though the metal is part of him—and that’s when I know.
He didn’t ask me to let go of my dreams; he just showed me what real dreams feel like.
I clear my throat. He looks up, the knife still in hand, face rough with concentration. He raises his eyebrows. “You awake?”
I step closer, heart hammering. “Something came through.” My fingers close around the comm unit in my pocket, like a lifeline.
He stops polishing and follows my eyes. “The Academy?”
I nod. The echo of hope ricochets inside me. “They want me back—to teach.”
He smiles—a slow, proud thing that does bad things to my resolve. “That was your dream, once.”
My voice catches. “It is my dream.”
He sets the knife down with precision, wiping each blade. “And this?” He gestures to himself, the knives, the engine hisses and battle stations echoing from deeper in the ship.
I swallow. “This ... you ... us. I want it too.”
He steps toward me, closing the gap I created with my shock. His breadth fills the doorway, scent of warmed metal and engine oil clinging to him. I inhale deeply, tasting the reality of our life together.
He nods quietly. “Then you take it. Don’t choose. Let the galaxy fold itself around both.”
Tears prick my eyes. “Can I?”
“Of course.” He lifts a hand to wipe my cheek. “You’re brilliant enough for two worlds.”
I close the distance, pressing my forehead to his. “I don’t want to lose you.”
He chuckles low and presses his fingers to my cheek. “You won’t. Not if we decide together.”
I pull back, eyes brimming. “Novaria and hellstation hero with an assassin husband?”
He grins like a dare. “Sounds like a nightclub.”
I laugh, exhale a shaky laugh that feels like freedom. “I love you.”
He leans in for a quiet kiss: slow, weighted, full of unsaid promises. “I love you too.”
Later that morning, the ship’s briefing room is cluttered with star maps and supply logs.
I’ve replied to the Academy—yes, I’ll come back once this mission is done.
Dayn hovers near the door, providing armed support for the rest of the Hellfighter team preparing for departure.
I close the comm and turn to him, heart swelling.
“You really think it’ll work?”
He crosses the room in two strides, hands anchoring on my shoulders. “It will work, sunshine. You’ll teach them to fix starships and break hearts behind armor plating. They need you. But I need you too.”
I reach up and touch his face—his real face, the Shorcu beneath the inducer but now ever-present in my mind. His scaled jaw line, the edge of his ear, just beneath the comm array.
I whisper, “I need you.”
He kisses my palm. “Then we’ll need schedules.”
I grin, lifting his hand to my cheek. “I’ll build us time.”
He laughs. “You always do.”
Later, in the ship’s corridor, I brush past Garrus and other Hellfighter members loading supplies. They peek at me curiously when I stop to secure extra cable ties and diagnostic tools in my utility belt—it’s composition day, and I’m going to need more than my mech gear for lectures at Novaria.
Garrus sidles up, arms loaded with rations. “So, prof, gonna teach them to weld bombs or bridges?”
I slide him a grin. “Both. Classes start next trimester.”
He whistles. “Ambitious.” He claps me on the back. “They’ll be lucky to have you. And we’ll be up shit creek when you leave.”
I laugh. “You’re a hallway away.”
He shakes his head. “You’re unstoppable.”
That night, Dayn and I sit side by side on the observation deck, watching a blue-white supergiant star pulse on the viewplate. The thermal blanket is folded around our knees, warm from my last bout with engine oil and coffee.
“Novaria’s going public with your joint appointment,” I say softly. “They want a public announcement after the mission.”
He nods, but stays silent. I wonder if he sees the scope of the life I nearly left behind—or if he’s processing the fear of losing me to a globe far bigger than him.
Then he kisses my temple. “I want your students to see what courage looks like. And your enemies to know why they failed. And I want to build a family with you. One that stretches across star systems.”
My tears come then—hot and unashamed—glimmering in the star-lit darkness. I rest my head on his shoulder. “That’s exactly what I want too.”
He slips his hand into mine. “We’ll course-correct as we go.”
“We will.”
I breathe in his scent—steel, ocean, promise. I taste the salt of hope on my lips.
I whisper, “Let them all watch. Let the galaxy see.”
He squeezes my hand. “We’ll make them see.”
And in the hush of space, two dreamers anchor each other: no bigger choice, no wider difference, just an unshakable pact to bend the galaxy until it fits—not just their dreams, but both of them.