Chapter 3 Fixing Things #2
“Still within acceptable range, but keep monitoring.” I lean forward to access the next connection, hyperaware of the way his gaze tracks the movement. “If it jumps to point-seven, we’ll have problems.”
“Understood.”
The simple acknowledgment shouldn’t send a little thrill through me, but it does. There’s something about the way he takes direction without argument, the way he trusts my expertise without question, that hits all my competence buttons in the best possible way.
Most passengers would be questioning every move, second-guessing my decisions, or worse—trying to take over because they assume they know better. Rynn just quietly follows my lead with the kind of confidence that suggests he’s used to working with skilled professionals.
I wonder what other kinds of situations he’s been in that required this kind of teamwork.
Wonder if he’s always this quietly commanding, this unshakably competent under pressure.
Wonder if he brings that same focused intensity to everything he does, including the kinds of things that would leave us both breathless and satisfied—
“Matrix variance dropping to point-three,” he reports. “Whatever you just did worked.”
“Good.” I sit back on my heels, wiping sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand. The compartment is definitely getting warmer, and not just from the equipment. Having him this close, shirtless and competent and smelling like sin, is making my internal temperature regulation go haywire.
“You’re very skilled at this,” he observes, and there’s genuine admiration in his voice that makes something warm and dangerous unfurl in my chest.
“It’s my job.” But I can feel heat rising in my cheeks at the compliment. “OOPS doesn’t hire people who can’t handle their own repairs.”
“Even so.” His gaze moves over my face with an intensity that makes my pulse skip. “Not everyone could have stabilized that matrix cascade. That was impressive problem-solving.”
The praise shouldn’t affect me this much. I’m used to compliments about my technical skills—they’re facts, not flattery. But something about the way he says it, the quiet certainty in his voice, makes me want to live up to whatever image he has of me.
It also makes me wonder what other kinds of skills he might find impressive.
What other ways I could make him look at me with that particular blend of admiration and something darker, hungrier.
Wonder if he’d watch me with the same intensity if I was demonstrating entirely different kinds of expertise—
“CAPTAIN,” Zip’s voice suddenly fills the compartment, making me jump. He only shouts when he’s nervous, “I HATE TO INTERRUPT WHAT APPEARS TO BE A FASCINATING DISPLAY OF MUTUAL PROFESSIONAL ADMIRATION, BUT WE HAVE MULTIPLE SITUATIONS REQUIRING ATTENTION.”
I immediately refocus on the scanner, grateful for the distraction from my increasingly inappropriate thoughts. “What kind of situations?”
“THE PRIMARY COOLANT MANIFOLD IS SHOWING STRESS FRACTURES, THE NAVIGATION ARRAY NEEDS RECALIbrATION, AND LIFE SUPPORT SYSTEMS REQUIRE OPTIMIZATION FOR EXTENDED OPERATIONS.”
“How urgent?” I’m already mentally cataloging repair priorities, calculating what we’ll need and how long it might take.
“THE COOLANT MANIFOLD IS MOST CRITICAL—APPROXIMATELY FOUR HOURS BEFORE WE RISK CONTAINMENT FAILURE. THE NAVIGATION ARRAY CAN WAIT UNTIL WE’RE MOBILE AGAIN, BUT LIFE SUPPORT OPTIMIZATION SHOULD BE ADDRESSED WITHIN THE NEXT TWO HOURS.”
I study the access schematics Zip projects onto my tactical display. The manifold is in one of the most awkward locations possible—tight quarters, poor visibility, and close proximity to several other critical systems.
“I’ll need to get in there and reinforce the stress points with molecular patches,” I mutter, more to myself than to Rynn. “But the angle’s going to be tricky.”
“What can I do to help?” he asks immediately, and I find myself looking at his hands again—those elegant, long-fingered hands that have been driving me to distraction for the past three hours.
“The access space is pretty narrow. I might need you to guide me through some of the tighter spots.” The words come out more breathless than I intended as my imagination immediately conjures images of his hands on mine, directing my movements with that same quiet authority he’s shown with everything else.
“Of course.”
For the next hour, we work our way through the ship’s various systems, and it’s simultaneously the most productive and most torturous experience of my professional life.
The coolant manifold repair requires us to work in impossibly close quarters.
Every time I need to reach a difficult connection, he’s there to steady me, his hands firm and sure on my waist or my shoulders.
When I can’t see what I’m doing in the tight spaces, he guides my hands with his own, his voice a low murmur in my ear as he describes what I’m feeling for.
“A little to the left,” he says at one point, his breath warm against the side of my neck as he reaches around me to point out a stress fracture I can’t quite see. “There—can you feel the ridge in the metal?”
I can feel a lot of things, and the ridge in the metal is pretty far down the list. What I’m really aware of is the solid warmth of his chest against my back, the way his scent wraps around me in the confined space, the brush of his arm against mine as he helps me position the molecular patch.
I wonder what it would be like to turn in his arms, to press my mouth to that pulse point at the base of his throat and see if I could make his breathing as unsteady as mine has become.
Wonder if he’d let me explore all that gorgeous marked skin with my hands and mouth, if he’d make those low sounds I’ve been imagining while I worked my way down his body—
“Perfect,” he murmurs, and the approval in his voice sends heat spiraling through me. “That should hold.”
I have to clear my throat before I can respond. “Good. Just a few more stress points to reinforce.”
But as we continue working, I become increasingly aware of every point of contact between us.
The way his hand splays across my lower back to keep me steady when I have to reach into an awkward space.
The brush of his fingers against mine when we’re both working on the same connection.
The heat of his skin when he leans closer to get a better view of what I’m doing.
It’s all perfectly innocent, completely professional. But my imagination keeps filling in the gaps, keeps showing me what those touches could mean in a different context. What those strong, careful hands could do if they weren’t focused on ship repairs.
When we move to the life support calibration, things somehow get even worse.
The environmental controls are located in a maintenance crawlway that barely has room for one person, let alone two.
But we need to work together—I handle the delicate sensor adjustments while he monitors the system responses from the main console.
“Oxygen levels optimal,” he reports as I fine-tune the atmospheric processors. “Temperature regulation stable.”
“Good. How’s humidity control?”
“Rising slightly. You might want to—careful!”
His warning comes just as I shift position and catch my shirt on a protruding conduit. The fabric pulls tight, trapping my arm at an awkward angle, and suddenly I can’t move without risking a tear in both my shirt and the sensitive equipment.
“I’m stuck,” I admit, feeling heat rise in my cheeks at the ridiculous situation.
“Hold still.” His voice is closer than I expected, and suddenly his hands are on me, working to free the caught fabric. “Don’t move. I’ve got you.”
The authoritative tone sends a shiver down my spine, but it’s his hands that really destroy me.
He’s being completely professional, but I can feel the warmth of his fingers through the thin material of my shirt as he carefully works to untangle me.
When he has to reach around me to access the caught area, his chest presses against my back, and I have to bite back a sound that has nothing to do with discomfort.
“There,” he says softly when he finally frees me. “You’re all right.”
But he doesn’t immediately move away, and neither do I. For a moment that stretches like eternity, we’re pressed together in the narrow space, both breathing a little too fast. I can feel his heart beating against my shoulder blade, can smell that intoxicating scent of spice and heated skin.
I wonder what would happen if I leaned back into him, if I let my head fall back against his shoulder and turned just enough to meet his eyes. Wonder if he’d kiss me, if those elegant hands would finally stop being careful and show me what I’ve been imagining for hours—
“We should...” he starts, but his voice is rougher than usual.
“Right,” I manage, forcing myself to move away from the tempting heat of his body. “Navigation array next.”
The navigation work is thankfully less intimate, but no less torture.
Watching him handle the delicate recalibration with steady hands and focused intensity is like watching art in motion.
Everything about the way he moves screams competence and control, and it’s doing absolutely nothing for my ability to think about anything other than what those hands would feel like on my bare skin.
“Stellar cartography updated,” he reports after running a full diagnostic. “We should be able to plot an accurate course once the FTL drive is back online.”
“Excellent.” I’m proud that my voice sounds normal, because inside I’m screaming. Hours of close proximity, innocent touches that feel anything but innocent, and the constant awareness that he’s gorgeous and competent and completely oblivious to the effect he’s having on me.
Or maybe not so oblivious. I’ve caught him watching me a few times, his golden eyes dark with something that might be nothing more than professional interest but feels like much more.