Chapter 11 #2
"You're using too much nitrogen." I gesture at his formula displayed on the data-pad, frustrated. "The protein-grain will bolt before it sets pods. We need higher phosphorus ratios for root development."
"The soil analysis says we're deficient in nitrogen by forty percent." He pulls up a different screen, shoves it toward me. "Basic chemistry. You can't build proteins without adequate nitrogen."
"Basic biology." I match his tone exactly, watch his eyes narrow in response. "Root systems need to establish before top growth or the whole plant fails under its own weight. It's called developmental sequencing."
"Developmental sequencing," he repeats slowly, "won't matter if the plants starve during vegetative growth."
"They won't starve. I can supplement through bio-kinetic acceleration during flowering. But only if the foundation is stable."
We glare at each other across the cluttered workspace. Data-pads and soil samples and half-empty water bottles scattered between us like battle lines.
Then Haid does something unexpected. He leans back in his chair, crosses his arms, and actually considers my argument instead of fighting it.
"Show me the math," he says.
So I do. Pull up growth models and nutrient uptake curves and projected yields based on the adjusted formula.
Walk him through the calculations step by step, pointing out where his assumptions account for standard agriculture but not for my abilities, the way I can push development in ways traditional farming can't match.
He follows every word. Ask sharp questions. Catches an error in my exponential growth projection that I'd missed.
By the time we've hammered out a compromise formula, the station lights have dimmed to night-cycle. My voice feels hoarse from talking. My mind buzzes with the particular satisfaction of solving complex problems with someone who actually understands the work.
"You're right about the phosphorus balance," Haid admits, updating the master file. "I was overcompensating for historical deficiencies."
"You're right about needing nitrogen reserves." I stretch, feeling vertebrae pop. "I can't maintain acceleration indefinitely. The plants need to sustain themselves."
He glances at me. Something almost like a smile touches the corner of his mouth. "Look at us. Agreeing on things."
"Terrifying, isn't it?" The word comes out lighter than I intend, almost playful despite the truth underneath.
"Absolutely." He turns back to the data-pad, but there's something different in the set of his shoulders now. Less rigid. The slightest loosening of that perpetual tension he carries. "We should test the new formula on a small plot first. Establish proper control variables before we scale up."
"Section C in Dome Two." I'm already mentally mapping out the logistics, visualizing the space. "The soil composition there is closest to the station average. It'll give us the most reliable baseline data."
"I'll prepare the bed tomorrow morning. Run a full analysis of the substrate before we start, make sure we're not introducing any confounding factors." He pauses, fingers hovering over the screen as he makes notes. "You can supervise the initial seeding, monitor the—"
He stops mid-sentence. Goes completely still in that way that makes my pulse quicken.
I follow his gaze to the secondary monitor mounted on the left wall. The one displaying live feeds from the experimental plots. The test crop we planted last week, the experimental strain we'd engineered specifically to tolerate the low oxygen environments that plague half our growing stations.
It's blooming.
Actual flowers, delicate and white, glowing faintly with bioluminescence in the low light of the remote camera feed. Dozens of them, scattered through the growth bed like fallen stars.
"It worked." My voice comes out hushed, reverent. "Haid, it actually worked."
I move without thinking, drawn to the screen like a moth to flame. Need to see it closer, need to confirm what my eyes are telling me.
He leans in at the same time. Both of us crowding the display, magnifying the image, watching proof of impossible things bloom in poisoned soil.
Our heads touch. Just temples brushing, hair mingling, the smallest point of contact.
Everything stops.
I become hyperaware of every detail. The warmth of his skin against mine. The sound of his breathing, suddenly shallow. The faint scent of him, that warm smell I've been trying not to notice, now filling my lungs with each inhale.
The air changes. Thickens. Charges with something I don't have words for.
I turn my head. Just slightly. Just enough to see his profile this close, the hard line of his jaw, the scar tissue that crawls up his neck, the way his throat works as he swallows.
He turns too.
We're face to face now. Barely breathing. Close enough that I can see flecks of deep grey in the black of his eyes, and can feel the ghost of his exhale against my lips.
The magnetic pull is undeniable. Physics beyond my control. Like gravity, like planetary orbits, like the inevitable collapse of stars.
His gaze drops to my mouth. Lingers there with an intensity that makes my breath catch, makes every nerve ending in my body suddenly aware of its existence.
I watch his eyes darken, see something raw and hungry flicker across his features before he tries to lock it down, to bury it beneath that iron control he wears like armour.
My heart hammers against my ribs, loud enough I'm certain he can hear it.
The sound fills my ears, drowns out the gentle hum of the lab equipment, the distant thrum of the station's life support systems. It's deafening, this thundering pulse, this visceral proof that my body has made decisions my mind hasn't caught up to yet.
Heat floods through me, pooling low in my belly, spreading outward until I'm certain my skin must be glowing with it.
Then he jerks back. Chair scraping against floor plating with a metallic shriek. Standing so fast he nearly knocks over a tray of samples.
"It's late." The words come out strangled, rough, like they've been dragged across broken glass.
He won't meet my eyes now, won't look anywhere near me.
"You should rest. Get some sleep. Big day tomorrow.
" There's a hollow quality to his voice, an emptiness that wasn't there moments ago when he was leaning close enough for me to count his eyelashes.
He's already moving toward the door, putting distance between us with purposeful strides. His shoulders are rigid, locked tight with tension. Not looking at me. Definitely, deliberately not looking at me. As if the sight of me might undo whatever fragile control he's just wrestled back into place.
"Haid—" His name escapes before I can stop it, raw and uncertain and far too revealing. I don't even know what I want to say. Don't go. Stay. Explain what just happened. Tell me I didn't imagine the hunger in your eyes, the way your breath caught, the moment when I thought—
"Goodnight, Ksara." Flat. Final. A door slamming shut in my face, though he hasn't even reached the physical one yet. He doesn't slow, doesn't hesitate, doesn't give me a chance to respond.
The door hisses shut behind him with a pneumatic sigh that sounds almost mocking in the sudden, profound silence.
I stand there in the empty lab, fingers pressed to my temple where his skin touched mine, staring at blooming flowers on a screen and trying to remember how to breathe normally.