Chapter 5 Containment Protocols #3
“Additionally,” she continues with the kind of clinical precision that suggests she’s thought this through carefully, “attempting to maintain separate quarters while bonded would likely result in poor sleep quality for both of us, which would compromise our ability to handle crisis situations effectively. From a safety perspective, shared quarters with proper rest is significantly preferable to exhausted decision-making.”
“You are approaching this from a risk management perspective.”
“I’m approaching this from a survival perspective,” she corrects.
“We have three days to get to Kallos Station while being hunted by Thek-Ka, with unstable bonding that might destabilize further if we don’t maintain proximity, in a ship that’s designed for solo operations but now has to support two people plus a Junglix who makes coffee with his body. ”
When she puts it that way, shared sleeping quarters seem like a remarkably minor concern.
“Very well,” I agree. “We share the bunk.”
“Thank you for being reasonable about this.”
“I am being practical about situations beyond my control while trying not to think about how sharing a bunk with you is going to make the next three days extremely challenging for my biology.”
The words escape before I can filter them, and I see her expression shift to something that might be awareness.
“Your biology?”
“My biology believes you are my mate and responds accordingly to your proximity. Sharing sleeping quarters will make those responses more... pronounced.” I force myself to meet her eyes despite the heat flooding my face.
“I will control myself. You have my word on that. But I cannot control my body’s automatic reactions to your presence. ”
She’s quiet for a moment, and I can see her processing the implications.
“What kind of automatic reactions are we talking about?”
“Enhanced pheromone production. Elevated body temperature. Increased protective instincts. And...” I trail off, struggling to find diplomatic phrasing.
“And physical arousal,” she finishes.
“Yes.”
“That you can’t control.”
“That I can choose not to act on,” I correct. “But cannot prevent from occurring.”
She nods slowly, still processing. “And you’ll experience this every time we’re in close contact?”
“The bond creates constant low-level arousal as part of the mate recognition response,” I admit, because she deserves complete honesty about what she’s agreeing to.
“Prolonged proximity intensifies it. Skin contact...” I stop, because describing how skin contact affects me would require words I don’t possess.
“Makes it worse,” she finishes.
“Makes it more apparent,” I correct quietly. “It is always there. Physical contact simply makes it impossible to ignore.”
She looks at me with those analytical eyes, and I brace myself for her to rescind the shared quarters offer. To decide that dealing with separation discomfort is preferable to sharing sleeping space with someone whose biology is constantly responding to her presence.
Instead, she surprises me.
“Then I guess we’re both going to have to get very good at ignoring biology,” she says pragmatically. “Because I refuse to let pheromones and biochemical bonding dictate how I live my life.”
The words should feel like rejection. Instead, they feel like challenge—like she’s acknowledging the difficulty but choosing to face it anyway rather than retreating to false distance.
“You are remarkably brave,” I tell her.
“I’m remarkably stubborn,” she corrects. “There’s a difference.”
From somewhere behind us, Jitters makes an approving warble and begins tidying the cockpit with enthusiastic determination. Apparently he approves of our sleeping arrangements and has decided to celebrate through aggressive domestic assistance.
“We should probably establish some ground rules,” Zola says, turning back to her systems diagnostic. “For the shared quarters situation.”
“Agreed. What rules do you propose?”
“Professional courtesy,” she begins, ticking off points like she’s conducting a safety briefing.
“We maintain appropriate clothing. We respect each other’s privacy as much as the ten-foot limit allows.
We communicate clearly about comfort levels and boundaries.
And we remember that this is temporary—a practical solution to a biochemical problem, not a romantic arrangement. ”
Each rule makes perfect logical sense.
Each rule also feels like she’s trying to convince herself that the bond isn’t real, that the attraction is purely chemical, that there’s nothing between us except biology and circumstance.
“Those are reasonable guidelines,” I say carefully. “Though I should point out that the bond makes maintaining emotional distance quite difficult. We will be aware of each other’s feelings whether we wish to be or not.”
“Then we’ll just have to get very good at having professional feelings,” she says with the kind of determination that suggests she genuinely believes this is possible.
I don’t argue, because what would be the point? She needs to believe she can maintain control, can keep this situation professional and temporary despite the biochemical reality binding us together.
And who knows—perhaps she’s right. Perhaps we can spend three days in shared quarters, feeling each other’s emotional states and fighting constant arousal, while maintaining perfectly professional boundaries.
I am not optimistic about this plan.
But I watch her work through the systems diagnostic with focused competence, her fingers dancing across controls with the kind of expertise that comes from years of training, and I realize that regardless of whether the plan succeeds, I am committed to making this as manageable for her as possible.
She deserves that much, at least.
“Diagnostics complete,” she announces after several minutes. “All systems operational. Minor stress damage to the external sensors from our rapid departure, but nothing that will affect navigation or life support.”
“Then we are ready to depart?”
“We’re ready to run,” she corrects. “Again. Away from alien gladiators and toward uncertain solutions with dubious success rates.”
“That is significantly less optimistic phrasing than ‘ready to depart.’”
“I’m a realist, Crash. I deal with what is, not what I wish things were.
” She initiates the departure sequence, and I feel The Precision’s engines hum to life beneath us.
“And what is, is that we’re bonded, hunted, and about to spend three days in extremely close quarters while hoping we make it to Kallos Station before either Thek-Ka catches up or this bond destabilizes further. ”
“When you put it that way, it sounds quite dire.”
“It is quite dire,” she agrees. “But we’re still alive, which means we still have options. And I’ve survived worse situations with worse odds.”
There’s something in her voice when she says it—old pain, old grief, old determination forged in circumstances I don’t fully understand yet.
“Your military service,” I guess.
She glances at me with surprise. “How did you know?”
“The way you approach crisis situations. The tactical thinking. The unwillingness to accept ‘acceptable losses.’” I pause.
“And the fact that you filed three years’ worth of perfect inspection records with zero safety violations.
That level of commitment to protocols suggests someone who learned the cost of cutting corners. ”
She’s quiet for a long moment, and I wonder if I’ve overstepped.
“Six people,” she says finally. “My entire squad, gone in seconds because someone decided safety margins were negotiable. I’ve spent three years making sure that never happens again.
” She looks at me directly. “And now I’m bonded to a courier who takes the most dangerous routes and has OSHA violation statistics that should be physically impossible. ”
“Yes,” I admit. “I understand the irony.”
“Do you?”
“I take dangerous jobs because they keep other people safe from my problems,” I tell her. “Because if I am going to die anyway, I might as well die doing something useful rather than hiding in fear while someone else takes risks I should be taking myself.”
Her expression softens slightly. “So we’re both trying to protect people from dangerous situations by throwing ourselves into them.”
“Perhaps that is why the bond formed between us,” I suggest. “We understand each other’s commitment to keeping people safe, even at personal cost.”
“That’s a very optimistic interpretation of biochemical accident.”
“I am attempting to find meaning in impossible circumstances.”
She almost smiles. “Me too.”
The Precision clears the platform and enters open space, and I feel the subtle shift as Zola engages the FTL drives. Behind us, the twisted wreckage of my courier ship recedes into the distance, along with whatever remains of my former life as a solitary courier with a death-warrior problem.
Ahead lies three days in shared quarters with a woman whose scent makes my biology purr with satisfaction, whose competence makes my heart rate spike in ways I don’t fully understand, whose presence has somehow become the central organizing principle of my existence.
Three days to figure out if this bond can be broken, or if we’re permanently connected by biochemical accident and impossible attraction.
I watch her work the controls with quiet efficiency, completely focused on the task at hand despite the chaos surrounding our lives, and realize that regardless of how the next three days unfold, I am grateful.
Grateful that if I had to be accidentally bonded to someone, it was her.
Grateful that she’s willing to face this situation with pragmatic determination rather than anger or denial.
Grateful that she’s here, close enough that the bond hums with contentment, safe and alive and entirely herself.
“Thank you,” I say quietly.
She glances at me with confusion. “For what?”
“For not giving up when the separation test knocked you unconscious. For being willing to share quarters despite the difficulty. For treating this as a problem to solve rather than a disaster to endure.” I pause. “For being you.”
Her expression shifts to something softer, more vulnerable than I’ve seen from her since the bonding.
“You’re welcome,” she says simply.
And for the first time since this nightmare began, I allow myself to believe that maybe, just maybe, the next three days won’t be entirely terrible.
Unlikely to be professionally appropriate, certainly.
Biochemically complicated, absolutely.
But not terrible.
From the galley comes the sound of Jitters organizing kitchen supplies with enthusiastic determination, preparing for the journey ahead with the kind of optimism only a sentient blob creature can maintain.
KiKi begins playing soft background music again—something instrumental and actually quite pleasant.
And Zola doesn’t tell the AI to turn it off this time.
We have three days to figure out how to function as bonded partners while being hunted across space by an honor-obsessed warrior.
Three days in shared quarters, maintaining professional boundaries, fighting constant attraction.
Three days that might be the longest and most complicated of my entire existence.
I watch her pilot us into the void, competent and determined and entirely unaware that I’m already more than half in love with her, and think:
This is going to be interesting.