Chapter 3
NOVA
Kaz is shirtless. Of course he is.
He’s got a bucket of paint in one hand, a brush in the other, and a tool belt slung low on his hips that I’m almost certain violates some sort of Alliance dress code.
The porch already looks cleaner just from him standing on it, the way his body casts golden light into the space like a second sunrise.
His scales shimmer with every shift of movement, like molten coins under the Barakkus sun.
And I hate that I notice. Worse, I hate that I enjoy it.
I try to return to my datapad, but I can’t focus on reports when a walking sin is outside my quarters, humming off-key and stretching his arms like he’s being paid in flexing rights.
I cave.
Two minutes. That’s how long I let myself watch.
Long enough to memorize the way his back ripples as he reaches for the eaves, muscles coiling under gold.
Long enough to regret that stupid bet and the way I said “shirtless optional” like I wasn’t daring him.
Long enough to admit—to myself—that I wanted this.
But I can’t keep staring. I’m not some adolescent intern with a crush. I’m the lead instructor. This is beneath me.
Still… he did earn that lemonade.
I make it from scratch—none of the reconstituted stuff they push in the mess. Squeeze the juice by hand, ice from the cooling unit, sugar measured just right. Because if I’m going to break a dozen professional boundaries in one afternoon, I might as well do it with class.
I open the door like I don’t care. Like my pulse isn’t stuttering.
Kaz turns, brush mid-stroke, and grins. “Ma’am.”
I roll my eyes. “Don’t start.”
“I haven’t said a word.”
“Your face is loud enough.”
He leans on the railing, his smirk smug and effortless. “You here to inspect my trim job? I went with eggshell, just like you asked. Though I think sunset gold would’ve matched my—”
“I will throw this lemonade at your head,” I warn, holding out the glass.
“Is that a threat or a gift?”
“Depends on how fast you take it.”
He reaches for it, fingers brushing mine in the exchange. Static shoots up my arm, curls in my spine. I look away too fast.
“I didn’t expect you to actually show,” I admit, sitting on the porch steps.
Kaz drops beside me like he belongs there. “I said I would. I might be a cocky ass, but I keep my word.”
“You are a cocky ass.”
He raises his glass. “To truth in advertising.”
I snort despite myself. The lemonade is tart, cold, perfect. He sips it like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted.
“You make this?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“Damn. That’s... unexpected.”
“What, because I’m all regulations and reprimands?”
“Because it tastes like someone still remembers how to care about something.”
I pause. The silence stretches between us, heavy with meaning I didn’t ask for.
“You always say stuff like that?”
Kaz shrugs. “Only when I mean it.”
We sit like that for a few minutes. The sun is hot, the porch paint drying in slow glistening waves. Our knees are inches apart. The wood beneath us creaks with every breath. A breeze dances through my hair and I feel it—feel him—too close and yet not close enough.
“So what’s the story with you, Starling?” he asks softly. “You’ve got that look.”
“What look?”
“The one people get when they’ve seen too much and still keep showing up.”
I want to laugh. Or tell him to shut up. But he says it without judgment, and it feels like he sees me—not the rank, not the file, me.
“I don’t have a story,” I say, lying.
“Sure you do. Everyone here does. Why else would we fly?”
“To get away,” I whisper.
He nods like he understands. “Or to chase something we lost.”
We don’t talk for a while after that. Just sip lemonade and pretend we’re not two disasters waiting to happen.
His hand brushes mine on the stairs.
I should move it.
I don’t.
His fingers shift, intertwining.
And suddenly, it’s like the air gets sucked out of the world. My heart lurches, breath shallow. Every nerve is tuned to him, to the heat of his skin, the way he watches me like I’m the only thing keeping him grounded.
“I’m going to kiss you now,” he says.
“You shouldn’t.”
“I know.”
But I don’t stop him.
When his mouth finds mine, it’s not tentative. It’s a surge, a desperate, hungry thing that devours sense and structure. I taste lemons, sweat, sunlight, and something sharp that’s only ever been Kaz.
His hands find my waist. Mine go to his shoulders. We’re locked, pressed together, and I forget everything—the Academy, the rules, the line I’m not supposed to cross.
Until I feel it. The soft tug at my back.
The clasp of my bra gives.
I break the kiss like a shot, shoving him back with one hand.
“No.”
Kaz’s eyes widen. “Nova—”
“I said no.”
He backs off instantly, palms up, contrite. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
I’m already standing. My lips still burn. My chest heaves. Fury and shame and want twist inside me like live wires.
“This was a mistake.”
“Nova—”
“Go.”
He hesitates. For a second, I think he’ll argue.
Then he nods, gathers his tools, and walks.
I don’t watch him go. I close the door, lean against it, and slide to the floor.
My fingers tremble as I refasten the clasp.
What the hell am I doing?
I’m not supposed to want this. I’m not supposed to feel like this. Not for a student. Not for him.
But gods help me… I do.