Chapter 4 “Baby, It’s Cold in Space”
“Baby, It’s Cold in Space”
Ober
The Wandering Star’s airlock seals behind us with a soft hiss that reverberates through my bones like a promise and a threat.
Hours ago I was in her cargo bay, but this—being inside her ship proper, in her living space—this is different.
Two years since I’ve been in these corridors, and everything feels wrong.
No—not wrong. Different. Devastatingly, impossibly different.
“PIP, seal us up and prep for emergency departure,” Nova calls out, already moving toward the bridge with that liquid grace that makes my pupils dilate involuntarily. “I want to be ready to jump the second those packages are aboard.”
I key my comm as we move, speaking to Kex while my enhanced senses catalog every change in her transformed ship. “Transfer those packages and get clear. Rendezvous at Titan’s Edge—you know the coordinates.”
“Copy that. What about the station lockdown?”
“Let them think we’re complying. Full stealth protocols once you’re clear.” I close the channel and catch Nova watching me with something that might be approval. “Your ship first, questions later.”
But as we move through the corridor that used to house hidden weapon compartments—now displaying holographic family photos of smiling children and reunited couples—the tactical situation becomes secondary to the sensory assault of being in her space again.
The air doesn’t smell like recycled atmosphere and barely controlled violence anymore.
It smells like her—jasmine and determination and something that might be hope.
It smells like home, and that terrifies me more than facing down Krax Korvain’s entire fleet.
My enhanced senses catalog every change as we move deeper into the ship.
The temperature has risen three degrees since I stepped aboard—my body’s automatic response to proximity with her, Felaxian biology betraying my attempts at emotional control.
Her pulse is elevated too, that familiar rapid rhythm that used to drive me wild when I’d press my mouth to her throat.
“PIP,” Nova warns, but her voice holds barely suppressed amusement. The sound goes straight through me like an electric current, and I have to fight the urge to crowd her against the nearest bulkhead just to hear what other sounds I can coax from her throat.
“Oh, don’t mind me! I’m simply excited to observe the physiological effects of forced proximity on former romantic partners.
My sensors are already detecting fascinating fluctuations in your bio-readings!
Elevated heart rate, increased body temperature, pupil dilation, and what appears to be significant reproductive interest despite your obviously conflicted emotional state. ”
Heat floods my face—actual heat that has nothing to do with my usual Felaxian warmth and everything to do with being called out by an AI with no sense of discretion. “Your AI is commenting on my—”
“Hormonal responses, pheromone output, and involuntary physical arousal indicators,” PIP chirps helpfully.
“It’s quite remarkable, really. Noomi’s readings are equally fascinating, though she’s better at controlling her outward responses.
The scent compatibility between your species is particularly—”
“PIP!” Nova’s voice cracks like a whip, but I catch the spike of arousal in her scent that confirms everything the AI just said.
“Right, right. Focusing on emergency protocols. But just so you know, Captain, the guest quarters have been converted to a rather lovely hydroponics bay. You’ll be bunking with Noomi. In her very small, very warm quarters. Sweet dreams!”
The silence that follows PIP’s announcement is deafening. Nova’s shoulders go rigid, and I can smell her arousal spike along with her panic—the same combination that used to drive me wild when we’d argue about raid targets and end up tangled together on whatever surface was closest.
My tail lashes involuntarily, and I force it to stillness before she notices. “I’ll take the cargo bay.”
“The cargo bay is full of Christmas presents,” she says without turning around, but I catch the way her breathing has changed. Shallower. Faster. “There’s a fold-out bunk in my quarters. We’re adults. We can handle sharing space for a few hours.”
Adults. Right. Because nothing about the way my body is responding to her proximity feels particularly mature.
The ship’s corridors seem narrower than I remember, forcing me to follow close behind her—close enough that I could reach out and touch the vulnerable curve of her neck.
Close enough that her scent wraps around me like a memory of every night we spent in hyperspace, her body pressed against mine while the void rushed past outside.
Close enough that my enhanced hearing picks up every change in her heartbeat, every soft intake of breath, every micro-sound that tells me she’s as affected by my proximity as I am by hers.
“Your ship,” I say abruptly, desperate to distract myself from the way her hips move when she walks, from the memory of how those curves used to fit perfectly against my hands. “It’s...”
“Different?” She glances back at me, and there’s something defensive in her green eyes. Something that makes me want to pin her against the wall and find out what other emotions I can put there. “Yeah, well. People change.”
But it’s not just different. It’s domestic. Soft. The sight of her transformed space sends an unwelcome wave of possessiveness through my chest—primal and territorial and absolutely inappropriate given that she’s made it clear she doesn’t want to be claimed.
There’s a tiny Christmas tree in what used to be our—her—quarters, complete with miniature lights that cast everything in warm, golden tones.
Family photos line the walls—not her family, but courier clients and their loved ones.
Children drawing pictures for parents stationed light-years away.
Couples separated by work or war but connected by the packages Nova delivers.
She’s turned her ship into a shrine to other people’s happiness, and seeing her sleeping space—HER space now—makes every territorial instinct I possess roar to life.
This is where she dreams, where she’s vulnerable, where she’s been alone for two years.
The bed is too small for two people, which means if I sleep here, we’ll be pressed together all night.
Touching. Breathing the same air. Listening to each other’s heartbeats in the dark.
The thought makes my claws ache to extend.
“You kept the coffee maker,” I observe, latching onto the one familiar thing in the transformed space because it’s safer than thinking about that narrow bunk.
“I kept the things that mattered.” Her tone is carefully neutral, but I don’t miss the way her fingers trace the edge of the photos. “Everything else had to go.”
Everything else. Including me, apparently. The words hit like a blade between the ribs, sharp and precise and designed to remind me that whatever we had, she chose to cut it out of her life like a cancer.
My comm unit chirps, and Kex’s gravelly voice fills the small space, making Nova tense like she expects me to change my mind. To choose my crew’s concerns over her mission.
“Captain, you’re sure about this? Those packages are our only leverage.”
I watch Nova’s face as she waits to see what I’ll choose. Her mission or my pride. Her trust or my control. Standing this close to her while making the decision feels like baring my throat to a predator—vulnerable and arousing and terrifying all at once.
“Bring them over, Kex. All of them.”
The silence stretches for three heartbeats, and I can hear her pulse spike. The scent of her surprise—sweet and sharp—fills the small space between us.
“Captain, this is insane. Those containers could be worth—”
“The only thing those packages are worth,” I cut him off, my voice dropping to the command register that’s ended more arguments than I can count, “is the trust of the woman standing next to me.” I keep my eyes on Nova as I speak, watching the way her pupils dilate slightly, the way her lips part on a silent breath. “Transfer the cargo. Now.”
“But sir—”
“I’m the captain. They bring the packages.
End of discussion.” I close the comm link with perhaps more force than necessary and turn to find Nova staring at me with an expression I can’t quite read.
Heat and surprise and something that might be the beginning of trust. “You wanted trust? Here’s trust. Your mission. Your cargo. Your rules.”
Something flickers across her face—recognition, maybe hope. For a moment we’re close enough that I could lean down and taste that hope on her lips, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from her skin.
“This doesn’t mean I forgive you,” she whispers, but her voice has gone rough in a way that makes my tail twitch with interest.
“I’m not asking for forgiveness.” The words come out rougher than I intended, weighted with two years of regret and want and the growing realization that I might have been wrong about everything. “I’m asking for a chance to earn it.”
“Nova,” PIP’s voice interrupts the charged moment between us, and I resist the urge to growl at the interruption. “I’m detecting three ships approaching fast. Krax’s configuration. ETA twelve minutes. Also, the ambient temperature in your quarters has risen another two degrees. Quite remarkable!”
Nova moves toward the controls, but I catch the slight tremor in her hands.
Fear or adrenaline or the same awareness that’s making my skin feel too tight and my claws ache to extend.
The way she moves in her own space—confident, competent, in control—does things to me that have nothing to do with tactics and everything to do with the way power looks on her.
“How long for the transfer?” she asks.