32. Josie
JOSIE
I ’m in the comm cabin when the encrypted ping lands, not expecting anything that might shade laughter or love—even out here in the chokepoint of a starless sector.
My fingers hover over the holo-keyboard, heart fluttering at a name from a past I thought buried under textbooks and late-night experiments: Professor Mirea Kaltsin , my mentor at Novaria Academy, the woman who taught me that “engineering is heartbreak made practical.”
I don’t hesitate. I tap the decrypt and read:
Josie—They’re building a dossier. Classified. They link you to an emotional compromise of a “classified asset.” Apologies in advance. You might want to lay low. M.
My chest cramps. I can almost smell the antiseptic of the lab where I worked under her, mind dancing with circuits and hope. And now? They call me suspect because I love Dayn. Because I dared to cross lines they drew in star systems and blood.
“Dayn,” I call, voice low and sharp. He looks up from the holo-plotter, brow knitting in that way that tugs at my heart—protected, curious, cautious.
“What is it?”
I shove the comm pad toward him. He reads, chest flexing in silent rage.
“They’ve put you on a list,” I say, anger burning my voice like a welder’s torch. “They’re watching us.”
His nostrils flare. “Let them watch.”
I nearly bite back the retort. “That’s not good enough. They’re tracking us because… because we follow our hearts, apparently.” I laugh, short, raw. “We’re terrorists of love now.”
Dayn rises, moving toward me until the hilt of his presence brushes my shoulder. “I’m with you. Always.”
I spin on him, breath catching. “It’s not about you.
It’s about me. They call me a threat because I feel something .
They’re punishing me—punishing us—for being…
for being real. Real people. Real alive .
I’ve saved whole goddamn colonies, Dayn.
I've hacked Vortaxian AIs. But mention that I love you—and suddenly I’m the enemy? ”
He cups my jaw. His thumb brushes the corner of my lips. “You did all that while loving me. If that’s a crime, then I’m guilty too.”
I close my eyes, leaning into him even as my jaw trembles. “This is bigger than us. They don’t understand what we are.” My voice drops to a whisper. “They want control. Compliance. They fear love that breaks every mold.”
He kisses my forehead, quiet but fierce. “Then let’s give them a mold that breaks them.”
I press a hand to his chest, feeling the slow-burn steadiness beneath his armor. “We don’t destroy more planets to do this. We outsmart them. We out-engineer them. We use their own tools.”
He nods, eyes smoldering with devotion. “You and me. Always.”
The moment is electric, electric as plasma arcs in a welder’s torch, but tinged with danger. I swallow. “We need a plan. Diplomatic meets and cover identities—I fly support missions under hellfighter intel cover, you remain black ops. We keep our tracks hidden.”
He presses a finger to my lips. “And we keep each other.”
My heart surges. “Always.”
That evening, I drill into the comm systems: encryption algorithms, verification loops, intel routing. My mind races through Kaltsin’s old lecture notes—it’s thrilling again, that click when circuits obey logic. The cabin’s glow flickers across the trading desks and scattered star charts.
Dayn watches, leaning in to study the code like it’s a poem. “I still don’t know how you do that,” he murmurs. “Make light bend to your hand.”
I look at him, admiring the warrior in repose. “Magic,” I reply. “No, janky code that I can fix on the fly.”
He chuckles. “Janky or not, it works. Always.”
My stomach flutters at the warmth in his tone. But the flick of his brow reminds me of what facing down Kaltsin’s intel warning really means.
I turn back to the pad. I cross-check protocols, insert ghost codes, scramble location data. I breathe in the hum of the ship’s veins.
“You ever thought,” I say quietly, “that love could be a weapon?”
He nods. “The strongest weapon. Steel breaks. Trust lasts.”
I pause mid-keystroke. “Then we’re armed to the teeth.”
He shifts closer, ghosting an arm across my shoulder. “Josie McClintock: engineer, teacher, rebel coder… terrorist of love.”
I laugh through tears, raw with determination. “That’s the riot I signed up for.”
He presses his lips to my temple. “Let enemy lists come. We’ll out-code them, out-fight them, out-love them.”
I tip my chin up. “Let’s show them why we’re worth the risk.”
He smiles—soft, proud, protective. I wonder if Professor Kaltsin will be proud of me too.
We sit side by side, halos of screen light in our eyes, forging a new front: loving loudly in a galaxy that demands silence. And for once, the risk feels like redemption.
I’m in the engine room before dawn, the low hum of the thrusters vibrating through the deck plates and up my spine.
Across the holo-display, the IHC’s internal surveillance logs scroll like dirty secrets from a nightmare.
Their redacted threat assessments call me “Person of Interest,” “Asset at Risk,” “Potential Emotional Compromise,” but it’s the logs that hit hardest: footage of our nights together, the way Dayn’s shirt rides up when he leans over the console, the way I laugh with my head thrown back in his arms. They spied on us intimately—every touch, every whispered word, every unspoken “I love you.” The weight in my gut grows heavier with each frame.
It’s personal.
I tap the console with a growl. “They want proof of compromise? They’re getting a vendetta.
” My fingers dance across the interface—crafting a virus to hijack their monitor feeds.
I write it so the IHC’s own system replays Dayn shirtless while chopping vegetables, slicing peppers with casual grace, unaware of all eyes.
The caption loops: “Emotionally compromised? Let’s see how compromised they think I am now.
” I load the payload, heart pounding with defiance.
Dayn oozes in behind me, a shadow in the glow. His chest rumbles under my fingers as I finish the final keystroke. “Let them eat this,” I say softly. He closes his eyes, tension and pride flickering across his face.
“Damn brilliant,” he whispers. “They’ll know we’re watching.”
Three hours later, the message goes viral on secured comms. Dowron storms in, virtual rage radiating off him in waves.
He doesn’t reprimand me. He doesn’t need to.
His silence says it clearly—I’ve crossed a line.
Garrus, on the other hand, is already printing T-shirts with that exact screenshot—Dayn in an apron, determined eyes, green peppers falling like weapons from his blade.
“Chop like a Hellfighter” it reads. The cabin vibrates with laughter.
I can practically taste the irony and adrenaline.
But when night falls, I find myself back in the engine bay, armed with raw fury.
We’re patched into a stale corridor, broken fans echoing like distant alarms. I slap my palm against the steel wall, the clang resonating in my hand.
“They watched us,” I seethe. “Watched us.” Each word hits me—mic drop of betrayal.
“You’re—our nights—our love—they took it as threat intelligence. ”
Dayn’s arms close around me, steady and strong. “They’re afraid,” he says gently. “But that doesn’t mean we are.”
I yank free, turning to face him. My voice is brittle as glass. “They tested us. Tested my loyalty. My love. They call me compromised for loving you, Dayn. What does that make them?”
He steps forward, and I feel the heat from his chest wash over me. He brushes dust from my shoulder. “They’re afraid of freedom,” he replies. “Of not being able to control what they can’t understand. But we?—”
“They can’t break us. Not us,” I finish, voice hoarse with conviction. The hum of the ship thrums beneath our feet, like the blood in my veins; alive, insistent, unstoppable.
He captures my jaw with gentle fingers, and it’s like he’s anchoring my soul. “Then show them what unbreakable looks like. With me. Always.”
I press into him, finding strength in the feel of his armor, the solidity of his stance, the certainty in that growled vow. “Always.”
Our fourteenth time together happens in tight quarters—no fanfare, no stolen sheets—just the engine bay and us and firestorm desire.
He pins me against the console, massive hands hot against my back, fingers splaying across my sides.
I wrap my arms around his neck, teeth grazing the dot of skin beneath his ear.
We move against each other hard, rough with rage and defiance.
My legs hook around his hips, nails snagging armor plates; each twist, each ache, is catharsis.
Dayn’s body is taut and responsive, a weapon honed by emotional fury.
I can taste the metal tang of sweat, smell the oil breath of the engine room.
Every press of his pelvis against me is a claim: I’m yours.
We’re here. We’re human. We’ll not be broken.
He thrusts slow and deliberate, letting tension break with each stroke, each gasp.
It’s not just passion—it’s unyielding, it’s boundary-shattering, it’s our silent roar at a galaxy that tried to spy on our love.
We move together until we shudder and fall, him catching me as I collapse across his chest, breathing ragged, voice lost.
I press my cheek to his sternum, body still humming. I catch my breath and then mutter, throat thick, “You’re gonna be the death of me.”
He smiles, a low and rough thing that cracks the world’s shape. He kisses my temple. “Not before I take everyone else first.”
I laugh in my exhaustion. Laughter and tears, unresolved chords. I press up to kiss him—taste of fire and revolt and sacred promise. “Fuck the lists,” I whisper. “Fuck the spies.”
He pulls me tight. “Fuck the galaxy,” he says, voice soft but resolute. “We keep living. We keep loving.”
I lift my head. We look at each other in the waves of low light, the quiet hum of machinery our lullaby. We don’t speak—but for once, we don’t need to. In that moment, we are both the rebellion and the heart it protects.
The engine bay fades from threat to sanctuary. And I know: whatever they log, whatever they fear, our love isn’t compromise. It’s power. And no one can watch that without feeling the quake.