Epilogue #2
“So,” I say eventually, when I can think again. “Good briefing?”
His laugh rumbles through his chest. “Excellent briefing. Though I think we may need a follow-up session after the mission.”
“Definitely,” I agree, pressing a kiss to his collarbone where a faint sheen of sweat makes his fur glisten. “Proper debriefing is essential for mission success.”
“Absolutely essential,” he confirms solemnly, then ruins the effect by nipping at my earlobe in a way that makes me shiver. “Can’t be too thorough when it comes to operational security.”
A chime from the wall comm interrupts our post-mission analysis, and Mother’s voice fills our quarters with its characteristic blend of authority and barely contained exasperation.
“Jaxson, Kraine, I hope you’re both decent because I need to brief you on a schedule change.”
“We’re perfectly decent,” I call back, even as Ober’s hands demonstrate that we are anything but. “What’s the change?”
“Your departure time has been moved up by an hour. Apparently, the colony’s medical situation is more urgent than initially reported.”
I feel Ober tense beneath me, his protective instincts immediately shifting into high gear.
It’s one of the things I love most about him—how quickly he can transition from playful lover to focused professional when the situation demands it.
The change is almost visible, his entire demeanor sharpening as he begins running tactical scenarios.
“Understood,” he says, his voice already taking on that edge that means he’s cataloging threat assessments and weapons configurations. “Any additional intelligence on the threat level?”
“Pirates have been hitting medical transports in that sector,” Mother replies with characteristic bluntness. “Nothing our favorite team can’t handle, but stay sharp. These aren’t desperate scavengers—someone’s organizing them.”
“Copy that,” I say, already mentally shifting into mission mode even as I’m still very much enjoying being connected to my mate. “We’ll be ready.”
“Good. And Jaxson? Try not to let your security consultant get too protective during the mission. The colony needs those supplies, not a demonstration of Felaxian territorial instincts.”
The comm clicks off, leaving us staring at each other in the sudden quiet.
“Organized pirates,” Ober says thoughtfully, and I can practically see him cataloging weapons configurations and escape routes. “Targeting medical supplies specifically.”
“Medical emergency,” I counter, already thinking about optimal flight paths and delivery protocols. “People are dying while we analyze the tactical situation.”
“Both,” we say together, and suddenly we’re grinning like idiots.
It’s been like this for a year—the perfect balance of his strategic thinking and my get-things-done practicality.
Where I see people who need help, he sees the threats that might prevent that help from arriving.
Where he sees tactical complexities, I see solutions that cut straight to the heart of the problem.
“Ready for another adventure?” I ask, finally lifting myself off him with a reluctance that speaks to just how much I enjoy being exactly where I was.
“With you? Always,” he says, but his hands linger on my hips, reluctant to let me go. “Though I reserve the right to be extremely protective if anyone so much as looks at you wrong.”
“I wouldn’t expect anything less,” I tell him, leaning down to kiss him one more time before we have to become professionals again. “Just try to save some of the territorial claiming for after we deliver the supplies.”
“Deal,” he agrees, then his expression turns wicked. “But I make no promises about what happens during the flight back.”
The promise in his voice sends heat spiraling through me all over again, and I realize that after a year of this—of missions and danger and lazy mornings and desperate nights—I’m still not tired of him. Still want him. Still choose him, every single day.
As we reluctantly disentangle ourselves and start preparing for another day of legitimate adventure, I catch sight of our reflection in the mirror across the room. Two people who’ve found their place in the universe, who’ve built something real and lasting from the wreckage of their separate pasts.
The woman in the mirror has scars—some visible, some not—but she also has something the old Noomi never had. Purpose. Partnership. The kind of contentment that comes from knowing exactly where you belong.
A year ago, I thought joining OOPs meant giving up excitement for safety.
I was wrong.
It meant trading reckless danger for purposeful adventure, criminal uncertainty for legitimate challenge, and the loneliness of running from my past for the joy of building a future with someone who loves all of me—including the parts I used to think were too broken to deserve happiness.
“Ready to save some lives and probably blow something up in the process?” I ask, pulling on my courier uniform with practiced efficiency.
“As long as I’m doing it with you,” Ober replies, strapping on his weapons harness with the same casual competence, “I’m ready for anything.”
Six hours later, somewhere between Kepler-442b and Junction One
“Medical supplies delivered successfully,” I report to Mother over the comm, trying to keep my voice professional despite the fact that Ober’s hands are currently doing very unprofessional things to my shoulders as I sit in the pilot’s chair.
“Colony officials expressed their gratitude for the expedited delivery. The outbreak has been contained.”
“Good work,” Mother replies. “Any issues with the pirate activity in that sector?”
“Nothing we couldn’t handle,” Ober says smoothly, his fingers working at a knot of tension in my neck that definitely wasn’t there when we left Junction One this morning. “Five ships tried to intercept us on approach. They’re currently reconsidering their career choices.”
I bite back a laugh. “Reconsidering” is a polite way of saying their ships are now floating debris and they’re stranded on an asteroid with emergency beacons, waiting for STI pickup.
The organized pirates turned out to be significantly less organized when faced with Ober’s tactical expertise and my creative interpretation of standard evasion protocols.
“Excellent. Any intel on who was backing them?”
“Working theory involves someone with a grudge against medical supply chains,” I manage, then nearly lose my composure entirely as Ober’s tail snakes around my waist, the tip trailing along my ribs with maddening precision. “We recovered some interesting communication logs.”
“Good. Forward those to Luzrak for analysis. ETA for return?”
“Four hours,” I say, my voice slightly strained as Ober’s massage becomes decidedly less therapeutic and more exploratory. “Barring any additional... complications.”
“Copy that. Mother out.”
The comm goes silent, and immediately I’m spinning in the chair to face my very pleased-looking mate.
“Four hours,” I say pointedly. “That’s a long time to be alone in hyperspace.”
“A very long time,” he agrees, his amber eyes dark with suggestion as he takes in my flushed appearance. “Whatever will we do with ourselves?”
“Well,” I say, standing up and backing toward our small cabin, my pulse already quickening at the predatory way he’s watching me move, “I suppose we could run a full systems diagnostic.”
“Very responsible,” he murmurs, following me with that liquid grace that never fails to make my mouth go dry. “Though I think there might be some... personal systems... that require more immediate attention.”
“Personal systems?” I ask innocently, even as my hands are already working at his weapon harness. The familiar weight of it reminds me of how competently he’d handled the pirates earlier, and there’s something undeniably arousing about watching him shift seamlessly between protector and lover.
“The kind that have been running hot all day,” he says, his voice dropping to that register that makes my knees weak. “Ever since this morning’s briefing, actually.”
“Mmm,” I hum thoughtfully, letting his harness hit the floor with a satisfying thud. “That does sound like a problem. Hot-running systems can be very... dangerous.”
“Extremely dangerous,” he agrees solemnly, even as his hands make quick work of my courier jacket. “Could lead to complete system overload if not properly maintained.”
“Then I suppose,” I say, backing him toward our narrow bunk while my fingers work at the fastenings of his shirt, “we’d better take care of that right away.”
“Immediately,” he confirms, catching me around the waist and lifting me easily. The enhanced strength that makes him so effective in combat has other applications that I’ve learned to appreciate thoroughly.
The next few hours pass in a blur of heated kisses, wandering hands, and the kind of zero-gravity intimacy that makes space travel infinitely more interesting.
We’ve learned to use the ship’s rotation to our advantage, the gentle artificial gravity providing just enough resistance to make every touch more deliberate, every movement more controlled.
Ober’s alien flexibility proves particularly advantageous in the confined space, and I discover new applications for Felaxian biology that definitely aren’t covered in any xenobiology textbooks.
By the time we’re approaching Junction One’s docking ring, we’re both thoroughly satisfied and completely unprofessional.
“Think Mother suspects what we do during long flights?” I ask, straightening my uniform and trying to finger-comb my hair into something resembling regulation appearance.
“Mother definitely knows what we do during long flights,” Ober replies, checking his weapons and looking annoyingly put-together despite having spent the last three hours proving that Felaxian endurance has some very interesting applications.
“She just doesn’t want the paperwork involved in officially acknowledging it. ”
“Smart woman,” I say, settling back into the pilot’s chair as Junction One fills our viewscreen. Home. Ours. The place where we’ve built a life that’s part adventure, part domesticity, and completely perfect for two reformed criminals who found their way back to each other.
The station looks different than it did a year ago—bigger, busier, more prosperous. OOPs has expanded significantly, and Junction One has become a major hub for frontier operations. Success breeds success, and our little corner of space has become something of a legend in courier circles.
“The smartest,” Ober agrees, then leans down to press a kiss to the top of my head. “She knew exactly what she was doing when she kept assigning us together.”
“Think she planned this from the beginning?”
“Absolutely,” he says with certainty. “Mother’s been playing matchmaker disguised as a dispatcher since the day you walked back into Junction One.”
As we dock and prepare for debriefing, I realize he’s probably right. And I realize something else too—I don’t mind being manipulated when the result is this life, this partnership, this ridiculous, dangerous, completely perfect love affair with adventure and each other.
Through the viewports, I can see the familiar bustle of Junction One’s docking bays.
Couriers coming and going, cargo being loaded and unloaded, the constant flow of legitimate commerce that we’ve become a part of.
A year ago, I thought this would feel limiting after a lifetime of operating outside the law.
Instead, it feels like coming home.
“Debriefing in ten?” I ask, though we both know Mother will want a full report on the pirate organization and how we neutralized the threat.
“Debriefing in ten,” he confirms, then his smile turns wicked. “Personal debriefing in our quarters afterward?”
“Definitely,” I agree. “I have some ideas about system maintenance that might interest you.”
A year ago, I thought I was choosing between my old life and safety.
Instead, I chose between running alone and building something together.
Between surviving and actually living.
Between the woman I used to be and the woman I became when I stopped being afraid of wanting more than I thought I deserved.
Best choice I ever made.
And if the way Ober’s looking at me right now is any indication, we’re just getting started.
***
Not ready to leave Ober and Noomi yet? Catch up on their vacation