Chapter 6 Frosting Friction #2
“I love you too. Even when you’re scheming.”
“Especially when I’m scheming,” she corrects, then yawns for real this time. “Tell Dove goodnight from me.”
“I will.”
I dim the lights and exit her room, closing the door with the soft pneumatic hiss of station architecture.
Dove is still in the kitchen when I return. She’s finished the frosting—it sits in a covered bowl, perfectly prepared. She’s wiped down the counters, organized the supplies, and is now standing at the viewport watching lightning arc across the alien sky.
The storm is beautiful from inside the station’s shielding. Deadly and magnificent in equal measure.
“She asleep?” Dove asks without turning.
“Yes. She asked me to say goodnight.”
“She’s a good kid.”
“She’s a tactical nightmare who learned manipulation from watching too many diplomatic negotiations on her educational modules.”
Dove’s laugh is quiet. “She loves you. That’s not manipulation—that’s just caring.”
“She’s plotting to keep you here permanently.”
“I know.” Dove finally turns to face me. “Cetus, about what she said—”
“You don’t owe me explanations.” I cross to stand near her—not touching, but close enough to feel her warmth. “She’s eight. She doesn’t understand that adult situations are more complicated.”
“What if they don’t have to be?”
I wasn’t expecting that. “What?”
She takes a breath, seems to steel herself. “Three to four days. That’s how long we have.”
“Yes.”
“You said you have resources. Financial reserves that could—”
“No.” I cut her off gently but firmly. “I wasn’t offering charity. I was offering help because I—”
I stop myself before I say too much.
“Because you what?” Her dark eyes search mine.
Because I’m already half-claimed by you. Because every protective instinct I have is screaming to solve this problem. Because the thought of collectors putting their hands on you makes me want to destroy things.
“Because I don’t want to see you hurt,” I say instead.
Long pause. Lightning flashes, illuminating her face in purple-gold light.
“I’ve been taking care of myself for nine years, Cetus. I’ll figure this out too.”
“You don’t have to do it alone.”
“I do, though.” Her smile is sad in a way that makes my chest ache. “Because in four days, the storm clears and I leave. That’s the deal. That’s always the deal.”
“That doesn’t have to be—”
“It does.” She cuts me off, but gently. “I don’t stay places. I don’t... this isn’t my life.”
She gestures around the residential pod—at the domestic warmth we’ve created, the kitchen still smelling of chocolate, Tavia’s drawings on the walls.
“This is temporary. I’m good at temporary.”
Something fierce and possessive rises in my chest. “What if temporary doesn’t have to mean nothing?”
She looks at me, caught off guard. “What?”
I step closer. The space between us feels charged, like the air before a lightning strike.
“What if we have four days? What if that’s... enough?”
Understanding dawns in her eyes. Then something else—want, fear, hope.
“Cetus—”
“I’m not asking you to stay.” The lie tastes bitter. “I’m not asking for promises.” Another lie. “But I’m asking... don’t pretend there’s nothing here.”
“I’m not pretending anything.” Her voice is rough, honest. “I’m trying to be smart.”
“And is it working?”
She laughs—short, sharp, frustrated. “No. Not even a little bit.”
My hand comes up before I can stop myself, cupping her face with careful precision. My claws are retracted, but I’m hyperaware of them, of how easily I could hurt her if I lost control.
She doesn’t pull away. If anything, she leans into my palm.
“Then maybe we stop trying to be smart,” I say quietly.
“That’s a terrible idea.”
“I know.”
“We have four days. Then I leave.”
“I know that too.”
“And you’re okay with that?” She searches my face. “Four days and then nothing?”
I’m absolutely not okay with that. The thought of her leaving makes something in my chest constrict painfully. But four days of having her is better than maintaining careful distance and regretting it forever.
“I need you to understand something,” I say, my voice dropping into harmonic registers I can’t control. “Lividians... we don’t do casual easily. When we want something, someone, it’s... intense.”
Her breath catches. “How intense?”
“Intense enough that I’ve been fighting every instinct I have since you walked into my station.”
“What kind of instincts?” Her voice is barely a whisper.
My other hand finds her waist, and I pull her closer—not rough, but deliberate. Claiming space. Claiming proximity. Nearly claiming her.
“To keep you. To make sure nothing touches you. To—”
I stop myself, but my markings betray me. They blaze in patterns I haven’t displayed in years. Possessive. Territorial. Mine.
“To what?” she prompts.
The honest answer would terrify her. The honest answer is that I want to mark her, claim her, bind her to me with every biological and cultural mechanism my species possesses.
I want to wake up with her in my bed every morning.
I want Tavia to have the mother figure she’s been missing. I want permanence.
But she’s offering me four days, and that has to be enough.
“To make you mine,” I say finally. Raw. Honest. “Even though I have no right. Even though you’re leaving.”
She should pull away. Should laugh it off. Should protect herself from getting entangled with someone who clearly wants more than she’s offering.
Instead, she rises on her toes, bringing her face closer to mine.
“What if I want to be yours? For four days?”
Heat blazes across my shoulders, down my arms. My grip on her waist tightens, and I can feel my claws threatening to extend.
“Dove—”
“Four days. No promises after. But while I’m here—” She pauses, her eyes searching mine. “While I’m here, maybe we stop fighting what we both want.”
I should say no. Should maintain boundaries. Should protect both of us from the inevitable pain when she leaves.
Instead, I lower my head, bringing us so close I can feel her breath against my lips.
“If I start this,” I warn, “I don’t know if I can—”
“ALERT: Atmospheric disturbance in sector nine requires immediate—”