Epilogue Annual Performance Review
Zola
ONE YEAR LATER
I wake up alone, and my first thought is that something has gone catastrophically wrong.
The bed is cold. Not cooling down cold—actually cold, like Crash has been gone for over an hour. My hand slides across the sheets where he should be, finding nothing but the ghost of vanilla-lightning scent and what I’m pretty sure is... is that sugar?
I sit up, blinking in the dim light of our quarters. One year ago, I would have immediately checked my datapad for incident reports. One year ago, I would have assumed the worst—hull breach, system failure, rogue asteroid field.
One year ago, I didn’t wake up in a former gladiator’s bed on a ship that smells like home.
“KiKi?” I call out, swinging my legs over the side. “Status report?”
“All systems nominal, Zola.” There’s a suspicious pause.
“Though I should note that Crash’s heart rate is elevated by forty-two percent, his pheromone output is at four hundred percent baseline, and he has accessed the environmental controls for Cargo Bay Three approximately seventeen times in the last ninety minutes. ”
I freeze with one foot in my ship boots. “What’s the probability he’s attempting a grand romantic gesture?”
“Ninety-nine point nine percent.”
“Oh no.”
“Oh yes.” KiKi sounds far too delighted. “I have taken the liberty of recording everything for posterity. And potential blackmail.”
I’m halfway to the door when something gelatinous and vibrating blocks my path.
Jitters has manifested directly in front of me, quivering with what I’ve learned to recognize as barely-contained secrets.
He’s also wearing a tiny bow tie somehow adhered to his translucent form, which is both adorable and deeply concerning.
“Jitters, move. I need to—”
He herds me backward, then forward, then toward the corridor leading to the cargo bays.
His color cycles through excited pinks and golds—none of the anxious grays or nervous purples from a year ago.
He’s confident now, settled into his role as Cross-Maxone Solutions’ Communications Specialist with the kind of pride that only comes from finding where you belong.
“He roped you into this, didn’t he?”
Guilty purple.
“And you’re not going to let me get dressed first?”
Adamant orange. He nudges my hip with surprising force for a blob.
I look down at myself—one of Crash’s old training shirts (the one that barely covers my ass) and nothing else. “At least let me grab pants.”
The orange intensifies. Jitters actually pushes me now, and I let myself be herded because apparently this is my life now.
The safety inspector who once filed a formal complaint about improperly secured cargo netting is being escorted through her own ship in her underwear by an anxious shapeshifter, on her way to what is clearly going to be a beautiful disaster.
The old Zola would have been mortified.
The current Zola is fighting a smile.
The cargo bay doors hiss open, and I stop dead.
“Oh. Oh, Crash.”
He’s transformed Cargo Bay Three into...
I want to say a garden, but that doesn’t quite capture the magnificent catastrophe before me.
Holographic moons flicker overhead like dying light bulbs, casting strobing shadows across what I think are supposed to be the Singing Groves of Velogia.
Bioluminescent plants in massive pots line the walls, and they are indeed singing—if by “singing” you mean “producing sounds remarkably similar to screaming goats.”
There’s a table in the center of the bay, set with what looks like formal Velogian dining ware and covered in dishes of glowing... substances. One of them is actively melting through the tablecloth.
And standing beside it all, looking like every fantasy I’ve ever had and several I didn’t know I needed, is Crash.
He’s wearing ceremonial armor. And by “armor” I mean strategic strips of gleaming metal that cover approximately fifteen percent of his body and emphasize the other eighty-five percent in ways that should probably be illegal.
The golden plating traces the musculature of his chest, frames his shoulders, and does absolutely sinful things to draw attention to his hips.
His golden skin gleams in the flickering moonlight.
His hair is braided back in an elaborate style I’ve never seen before.
He looks nervous. He looks determined. He looks like he’s about to give a presentation he’s been practicing for weeks.
It’s the most adorable thing I’ve ever seen, and I want to climb him like a tree.
“Zola Cross.” His voice has that formal cadence that means he’s reciting something.
“On this day, marking one full solar cycle of our bond, I present to you the traditional courtship environment of my people. I have...” He gestures broadly, and I catch the slight tremor in his hand.
“I have attempted to recreate the Singing Groves where Velogian mates consummate their unions under the three moons.”
The holographic moons choose that moment to flicker particularly badly, one of them shorting out entirely with a sad little pop.
The plants scream louder.
“I have prepared the sacred foods,” Crash continues valiantly, “which are meant to enhance—”
“Warning,” KiKi interrupts. “Chemical analysis indicates that substance on the center plate is industrial solvent, not food. Appears I downloaded the wrong cultural database. My bad.”
The glowing slime actively bubbles, eating through another layer of tablecloth.
Crash’s jaw tightens, but he presses on. “I have studied the proper protocols for a one-year bonding anniversary, and I am prepared to demonstrate my continued worthiness through the Ritual Mating Dance of the Golden—”
Jitters, vibrating with what I think is meant to be helpful enthusiasm, suddenly shifts his mass to adjust the lighting. Except instead of romantic mood lighting, he accidentally turns himself into a rapidly strobing disco ball.
“Seizure warning,” KiKi announces helpfully. “Photosensitive individuals should look away.”
“Jitters, no—” Crash lunges for him, trips over one of the plant pots, and crashes directly into the holographic projector.
The remaining moons explode in a shower of sparks.
The plants shriek in alarm.
The table tips, sending industrial-solvent-masquerading-as-aphrodisiac sliding across the floor.
Crash lands hard on his hands and knees, breathing hard, surrounded by the smoking wreckage of his grand gesture. His shoulders are rigid with mortification.
“I have failed the courtship parameters.” His voice is flat, defeated. “I ruined the anniversary. I am a disgrace to the traditions of my people and unworthy of—”
I’m already moving.
The laughter bubbles up from somewhere deep in my chest—not mocking, not cruel, but pure joy.
I’m laughing so hard tears streak down my face as I pick my way through the sparks and screaming plants.
The industrial solvent is eating a hole in the deck plating.
Smoke rises from the destroyed projector.
Jitters has turned himself a mortified gray-brown and is trying to hide behind a pot.
It’s perfect. It’s so perfectly, beautifully him.
“Zola, I—” Crash starts, still on his knees, and I drop down in front of him.
“You built me a disaster,” I say, framing his face with both hands.
His skin is fever-hot under my palms, the vanilla-lightning scent spiking with his distress.
“You researched Velogian traditions and terraformed a cargo bay and tried to give me moons and singing groves and ceremonial food, and every single thing went wrong.”
“Yes.” He sounds miserable. “I am—”
“It’s perfect.” I kiss him, tasting the shock on his lips. “It’s the most you thing that’s ever happened. Do you know what I would have done a year ago if someone tried to surprise me with romantic chaos?”
His hands come up to grip my waist, automatic and possessive even through his confusion. “Filed... an incident report?”
“Filed an incident report,” I confirm against his mouth. “Probably cited you for improper cargo storage and unauthorized environmental modifications. Definitely would have panicked and tried to fix everything instead of just... feeling it.”
I pull back enough to meet his eyes—those impossible golden eyes that see through every wall I’ve ever built.
“You’ve spent a year teaching me that chaos isn’t something to fear.
That not everything needs to be controlled or predicted or risk-assessed into oblivion.
You made me feel things, Crash. You made me want to feel them. ”
His pupils dilate, the bond between us suddenly flaring wide open. I feel his emotion crash into mine—the mortification transforming into something hungry and possessive and utterly claiming.
“So thank you,” I whisper, “for this beautiful, disastrous, perfect anniversary. And for every day before it.”
Then I kiss him again, and this time there’s nothing gentle about it.
His growl vibrates through both of our bodies as he surges up, catching me around the waist and spinning us so my back hits the wall beside the destroyed table.
The cold metal of his ceremonial armor presses against my overheated skin through the thin shirt, and the contrast makes me gasp into his mouth.
“Zola.” My name is a reverent curse in his language, all rolling consonants and sharp edges. His hands are everywhere—sliding under my shirt, gripping my thighs, threading through my hair. “My Zola. My mate.”
“Yours,” I agree, wrapping my legs around his hips. The strategic placement of his armor means I can feel exactly how much the disaster hasn’t dampened his enthusiasm. “Always yours.”
He lifts me higher against the wall, one hand supporting my weight while the other tears the shirt over my head with zero ceremony.
The fabric catches on my hair, and I’m laughing again even as he’s kissing down my throat, finding the permanent claiming marks that still make me shiver when he touches them.