Paige
The decontamination shower runs cold at first, then scalding hot.
I stand under the spray longer than necessary, letting the water wash away residual radiation particles and the lingering adrenaline that makes my hands shake. The medical scan cleared me. No dangerous exposure levels. No permanent damage. Just standard post-EVA protocol and a clean bill of health.
My body doesn't seem to believe it yet.
The water pounds against the tile, echoing in the small decon chamber. I close my eyes and see the moment the surge hit. See the hull falling away as my magnetic boots failed. Feel the sickening lurch of free-floating tethered only by a safety line I had to trust wouldn't snap.
And I hear his voice. Zoric's voice, breaking as he told me not to let go. As he said things I'm not sure he meant to say.
Because I need you. Because we need you.
The correction had been too late. Too obvious. I'd heard what he started to say. What he stopped himself from saying.
I turn off the water and dry myself quickly, pulling on a clean uniform. My hair is still damp when I step out of the decon chamber into the medical bay corridor.
He's there. Waiting.
Zoric stands against the far wall, arms crossed, his posture rigid in a way that suggests he's been standing there a while.
“Captain.” My voice comes out steadier than I expected.
“Chief Martin.” He pushes off the wall, moving toward me. “Medical cleared you?”
“Clean scan. No issues.” I'm suddenly, acutely aware of how close he is. “You didn't have to wait.”
“Yes,” he says quietly. “I did.”
Something in his tone breaks through the last of my control. Without thinking, I step forward and wrap my arms around him.
He freezes. Goes absolutely still for half a heartbeat. Then his arms come around me, careful and deliberate, like he's afraid I might shatter.
“I'm okay,” I whisper into his chest. His uniform is warm against my face, and underneath I can feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. Faster than human normal. “I'm okay.”
We stand like that for several seconds, long enough for me to catalog details I've never been close enough to notice before.
The way he smells up close, not just metal and recycled air, but something warmer, almost like sun-heated stone.
The fact that his body temperature really is higher than human normal, radiating through the fabric between us.
The way his breathing has changed, slower and deeper.
I pull back naturally, not wanting to but knowing I should. His arms release me immediately, and I see him take a deliberate step backward. Creating distance.
“Thank you,” I say. “For talking me through it. I don't think I would have made it back without your voice.”
“You would have.” His voice is rough. “You're the most resourceful person on this ship.”
“Maybe. But it helped. Hearing you.” I meet his eyes. “Hearing you care.”
Something flickers across his face. “I do. Care. More than is perhaps appropriate.”
The admission hangs between us. I should probably acknowledge it. Address it. But the medical bay corridor isn't the place for that conversation.
“We should review the communication logs,” I say instead. “Make sure the array is fully functional.”
“Agreed.” He gestures toward the corridor. “My office?”
“Lead the way.”
His office is dim except for the glow from his work screens. He hasn't turned on the overhead lights, and in the blue-white illumination from the displays, his markings are even more visible than usual.
There's a plate on his desk. Christmas cookies from the mess hall, untouched.
“I brought those earlier,” I say, settling into the chair across from him. “The children helped bake them. They're enthusiastic but not exactly skilled.”
He picks one up, examines it like he's analyzing a technical schematic, then takes a bite. His expression shifts. Not disgust exactly, but something close.
I laugh. Can't help it. “I warned you.”
“You did.” He sets the cookie down carefully. “Perhaps tradition can be observed without consumption.”
“Probably wise.” I pull up the communication logs on my tablet, but I'm hyperaware of him across the desk.
“Your markings,” I say, before I can stop myself. “I researched after the asteroid field. The xenobiologist's theories suggest gold indicates attraction. Personal connection.”
The silence stretches.
“Yes,” he says finally. “That's... one interpretation.”
“So when they turn gold around me...” I let the sentence trail off.
“It means what you think it means.” His voice has dropped lower. “I've been attempting to control the response. Obviously, I've failed.”
“I don't want you to control it.” The words come out before I can think them through. “I like knowing what you're feeling.”
His hands are flat on the desk. I watch them press down slightly, like he's anchoring himself. He says my name—”Paige”—and something in my chest loosens.
“Yeah?”
“I'm your commanding officer. The power dynamic alone makes any personal relationship problematic. And my culture considers visible marking responses shameful. Evidence of poor discipline.” He's explaining, justifying, building a case. “There are numerous logical reasons why we shouldn't—”
“I know.” I lean forward. “I know all of that. But I also know how I feel when I'm around you. How I felt out there on the hull with your voice in my ear. How I feel right now, sitting across from you, watching your markings turn gold because you can't hide it anymore.”
“And how do you feel?” The question emerges quiet. Almost cautious.
“Like I want to touch them.” I gesture to the markings on his temple. “Like I've wanted to since the first time I saw them change colors. Like I want to know if they're warm or if the light is just visual.”
His markings flare brighter. “They're warm.”
“Are they?” I start to reach toward him, then stop. “May I?”
“No.” The word comes out strained. He closes his eyes. “If you touch me now, I won't be able to stop myself from...”
He doesn't finish. Just sits there, eyes closed, hands pressed flat to his desk, markings blazing gold across every visible inch of skin.
The air between us feels charged. Heavy. I can hear my own breathing, too fast. Can see his chest rising and falling. Can see the exact moment he opens his eyes and looks at me.
The expression on his face makes my stomach flip.
“We should work,” he says, but doesn't move. “The communication logs.”
“Right.” I don't move either. “The logs.”
Neither of us picks up a tablet.
“This is a problem,” I finally say.
“Yes.”
“We're supposed to be investigating sabotage. Finding whoever's trying to kill us.”
“Correct.”
“And instead we're sitting here staring at each other like teenagers.”
His mouth curves very slightly. “An accurate assessment.”
I force myself to stand. “I should go. Before I do something we'll both regret.”
“Would you regret it?” He stands as well. “That's a genuine question. Because I'm not certain I would.”
The honesty in his voice pins me in place. “No,” I admit. “I don't think I would either. But that doesn't mean it's a good idea.”
“The best ideas rarely are.” He moves around the desk, and suddenly we're much too close. “I'll walk you to your quarters.”
“You don't have to do that.”
“I know.”
We leave his office, moving through the ship's night-quiet corridors. Most of the crew is off-shift, and we pass only a handful of people. The ones we do pass notice us. Notice the way we're walking a careful meter apart.
The Christmas decorations have multiplied since last week. Lights strung along the ceiling rails, casting colored shadows. Synthetic garland wrapped around support beams. A few brave souls have hung small ornaments on random fixtures, transforming utilitarian metal into something warmer.
“The holiday is approaching,” I say, just to fill the silence.
“Yes.” He glances at the decorations. “On my world, we have a winter festival as well. Different traditions, but the same basic purpose.”
“What purpose is that?”
“Surviving darkness together.” He looks at me. “Acknowledging that community and connection matter more than individual endurance.”
Our fingers brush as we walk. Accidental. Except it doesn't feel accidental when neither of us pulls away immediately. The contact lasts maybe two seconds before he steps slightly to the side, creating space.
We reach my quarters. I palm the door control but don't go inside.
“Thank you,” I say. “For walking me back. For everything today.”
“Paige.” He says my name like he's testing the weight of it. “Be careful. Walsh is suspicious, and we still don't know who else might be involved. Until we identify all the conspirators, you're in danger.”
“I know. That's why I have you watching my back.”
“Always.” The certainty in his voice is absolute. “Goodnight, Paige.”
“Goodnight, Zoric.”
I go inside before I can do something stupid like kiss him. The door closes between us, and I lean against it, listening to his footsteps retreat down the corridor.
My hands are shaking again. Not from the EVA this time. From something else entirely.
Something I'm not ready to name but can't ignore anymore.