Chapter 6 Research & Development #3
“I collided with your door frame.”
She chokes on her coffee. “You tried to practice predatory stalking in my ship?”
“The manual was very specific about the importance of masculine movement,” I defend, though I can hear how ridiculous it sounds. “I was attempting to understand appropriate body language for courtship scenarios.”
“And instead you injured yourself on my furniture.”
“The door frame was positioned poorly,” I insist. “Any Velogian male attempting to demonstrate dominance would have encountered similar difficulties in such confined quarters.”
She’s trying very hard not to laugh. I can see it in the way her mouth twitches, hear it in the breathless quality of her voice when she asks, “Did the romance manual mention anything about proper spatial awareness during courtship displays?”
“Commander Blade Starfire did not address furniture-related injuries in his tactical approach,” I admit. “Though in retrospect, this seems like a significant oversight in his otherwise comprehensive guidance.”
“Maybe because it’s fiction and not actually meant to be followed as an instruction manual,” she suggests, and then she does laugh—that genuine sound that fills the galley and makes something in my chest settle into contentment.
She’s laughing with me, not at me. Finding the absurdity in our situation rather than the disaster.
“I also attempted to practice his dialogue,” I confess, because apparently we’re fully committed to discussing my humiliating research now. “The line about ‘you belong to me now, little star.’”
“How did that go?”
“My forked tongue made it sound like ‘you belong to me now, little sssstar,’” I demonstrate, and she laughs harder. “The sibilance ruined whatever commanding presence I was attempting.”
“Oh my god, you actually tried it out loud?”
“I was attempting to be thorough in my research,” I say with as much dignity as I can manage, which isn’t much given the circumstances. “The manual suggested that vocal tone and delivery were crucial to successful courtship declarations.”
“Crash,” she manages between laughs, “I need you to understand that Commander Blade Starfire is what we call ‘aspirational fantasy,’ not ‘practical guidance.’ Real courtship doesn’t involve predatory stalking or growling possessive declarations.”
“Then what does it involve?” I ask, genuinely confused now. “If human entertainment provides inaccurate guidance, how am I supposed to understand what makes human females feel pursued in ways they find appealing rather than uncomfortable?”
Her laughter subsides into something softer. She sets down her coffee cup and looks at me with an expression I can’t quite read. “You really care about this. About doing it right.”
“Of course,” I say, confused by the observation.
“You are bonded to me through accident rather than choice. You have lost your career, your professional identity, everything you worked for. The least I can do is attempt to understand what makes you feel valued. Pursued in ways that respect your autonomy rather than simply imposing my biology on you.”
She’s quiet for a moment, and through the bond I can feel something shifting in her emotional state—surprise maybe, or something warmer that makes my chest constrict.
“That’s actually really sweet,” she says finally. “In a completely ridiculous, romance-novel-researching kind of way.”
“I am attempting to be worthy of your trust,” I say seriously. “Even if my methods require significant improvement and my execution leaves much to be desired.”
“You know what actually matters more than predatory grace or commanding presence?” she asks.
“Proper spatial awareness?”
“Honesty,” she says. “Being genuine. Showing me who you actually are instead of trying to be some fictional character from a space pirate romance.”
“The actual me injured himself attempting to demonstrate masculine authority at oh-four hundred,” I point out.
“And then admitted it instead of pretending it didn’t happen,” she counters. “That’s more attractive than any amount of manufactured dominance, Crash. The fact that you care enough to research human courtship rituals because you don’t want to make me uncomfortable—that matters.”
She takes a breath, and I can smell the shift in her scent that suggests her next words cost her something.
“I spent three years building a reputation for being the inspector who doesn’t compromise.
Who follows every protocol and never lets emotions influence professional judgment.
And now I’m bonded to my inspection subject, living in shared quarters, and apparently being courted through secondhand romance novels. My career is probably over.”
“I am sorry,” I say quietly.
“But you know what?” She meets my eyes. “The you who researches terrible romance novels because you want to do right by me, who admits when you walk into door frames—that makes me think this situation isn’t entirely terrible.”
“You think I am not entirely terrible?” The question comes out more vulnerable than I intended.
“I think you’re maybe the least terrible thing that’s happened to me in years,” she admits. “Even if you did accidentally biochemically bond us during a firefight.”
From his position on the counter, Jitters makes a sound like happy sobbing and turns brilliant pink, apparently overcome by the romantic progress.
“He is pleased by this development,” I translate unnecessarily.
“I can tell,” she says, and there’s fondness in her voice when she looks at the vibrating blob creature. “How did you find him?”
And just like that, we’re in different territory entirely—the territory of actual connection rather than awkward courtship attempts.
“Three years ago,” I begin. “Outer Rim courier run—the kind most couriers avoid because the pay isn’t worth the risk.
But I needed to disappear after leaving the circuits.
There was a derelict cargo hauler drifting in dead space.
It had been attacked—pirates, looking for easy salvage. I had to retrieve what was left.”
The memory carries weight, and I can feel her attention focused completely on me now, scientific curiosity mixed with genuine interest.
“In the corner, hidden behind damaged containers, I found Jitters. He was barely a hatchling. Small enough to fit in my hand. Terrified. Alone. Trying to camouflage himself but too frightened to maintain proper coloration—he kept cycling through colors that would have made him visible to anyone looking.”
“Junglix are social creatures,” I continue. “They don’t survive well in isolation. Hatchlings separated from their clusters often die within days from the stress. He would not have lasted much longer alone on that ship.”
“So you took him in,” she says quietly.
“I could not leave him.” The words come out more intense than I intended. “He was small and afraid and completely alone. I... I understood what that felt like. Being separated from everything familiar. Not knowing if you would survive or if anyone cared enough to help.”
“Three years after leaving the circuits,” she says, understanding.
“Yes. Three years of running from Thek-Ka. Three years of being alone except for dangerous courier jobs and constant fear. And then I found this terrified hatchling who needed someone to care about his survival.” I look at Jitters, who has been listening with focused attention and is now glowing soft lavender.
“He needed me. And perhaps I needed him as well. Having someone to protect. Someone who depended on me for more than just delivering packages to dangerous locations.”
“You have good instincts,” she says, her voice carrying warmth that makes my lungs burn. “For taking care of things that need taking care of.”
“I try to be worthy of trust when it is given,” I say simply.
She’s quiet for a moment, then: “You really care. About doing this right. About making sure I’m comfortable despite the circumstances.” She sets down her cup. “But you know what matters more than predatory grace or possessive declarations?”
“What?”
“The fact that you care enough to research because you don’t want to make me uncomfortable—that matters more than any manufactured alpha behavior.
” She pauses. “And finding a terrified blob creature and keeping him safe for three years because you understood what it felt like to be alone—that matters too.”
Something in my chest loosens at her words, some tension I didn’t know I was carrying.
“I believe,” I say carefully, “that I am falling for you in ways that have nothing to do with the biochemical bond and everything to do with who you are. Your competence. Your determination to keep people safe. Your willingness to laugh at my failed courtship attempts instead of being embarrassed by them.”
Her scent shifts into something warmer, more complex, that makes my enhanced senses catalog every detail with desperate precision. “That’s better than anything Commander Blade Starfire ever said.”
“I should perhaps stop consulting romance novels for tactical guidance.”
“Probably wise,” she agrees. “Though I’m keeping the image of you trying to demonstrate predatory grace at oh-four hundred and hitting furniture. That’s going to make me smile for weeks.”
Jitters has shaped himself into a lopsided, vibrating heart.
“He is not subtle about his matchmaking objectives,” I observe.
“No,” she agrees, smiling at the anxious blob. “But he has good instincts.”
“He does,” I say quietly, holding her gaze. “He knew you were special before I understood what you would mean to me.”
She laughs again—that genuine sound that makes my heart twist with emotions I don’t have names for. “We’re quite a unit, aren’t we? The disgraced gladiator, the compromised inspector, and the anxiety blob who makes coffee with his body.”
“The gladiator who walked away from false honor, the inspector who maintained her core values despite impossible circumstances, and the protective companion who ensures we stay caffeinated and emotionally supported,” I correct.
“Much better description.” She meets my eyes with determination. “I have three days on this ship with you to figure out what comes next. We might as well make it work.”
“We might as well make it work,” I echo. “Though I reserve the right to continue researching courtship protocols if my methods require improvement.”
“Just maybe skip the predatory stalking practice. My furniture can’t take much more abuse.”
“Commander Blade Starfire’s tactical approach is not compatible with your ship’s architecture or my coordination at oh-four hundred.”
We stand there in the galley—bonded partners thrown together by biochemical accident and impossible circumstances—and for the first time since the bond formed, it feels like maybe we’re going to be okay.
Not perfect. Not uncomplicated. But okay.
And watching Zola smile at me over blob-filtered coffee while morning light catches in her auburn hair, I think maybe “okay” is a pretty good place to start.