Chapter 2
NAULL
Aria glares at me like she wants to set my scales on fire.
Again.
It's kind of our thing.
I don’t mean to rile her up—okay, maybe I do—but I swear, nine times outta ten, I’m just breathing near her and she looks at me like I farted in her airlock.
Doesn’t help that I usually forget shirts exist when we’re below surface.
Vakutan metabolism runs hot, and this planet’s core heat makes my back sweat like a beast. But it’s more than that, if I’m honest.
I like the way she looks at me. Not the rage part—I mean, that’s fun, but it’s not the whole of it.
No, it’s the flicker in her eyes before she remembers she’s supposed to be mad.
That tiny pulse of not indifference. She doesn’t look at anyone else like that.
Doesn’t talk to anyone else like that either.
With me, it’s a live wire. Every word. Every look.
Like we’re just waiting for the next spark to jump.
And hell, I like fire.
Always have.
I lean back against the bench beside her, trying to act casual while my heart thunders like a drop-jet in my ribs.
She’s tense, arms crossed, boot tapping.
Her ponytail’s come loose and there’s this streak of soot across her temple, and I’ve never seen anything so sharp and breakable in the same damn breath.
She smells like burnt circuits and lemon balm, which is a combo that should be illegal. Or bottled.
I sneak a glance at her.
She’s not looking at me, which is wild, because we’re alone in a corridor the width of a starship’s spine. She should be looking. Because I am. Looking at her, I mean.
Always am.
“You ever gonna stop pretending you hate me?” I say, keeping my voice easy.
She snorts, barely glancing my way. “You ever gonna stop giving me reasons?”
“Maybe I’m giving you opportunities. Ever think of that?”
She arches a brow. “Opportunities to what? Smash your face into the console?”
“Bonding experience,” I shrug. “Shared trauma.”
She doesn’t smile. But her mouth twitches like it wants to.
Progress.
“You’re exhausting,” she mutters.
“You’re obsessed.”
“Delusional.”
“Aria,” I say, quiet now, serious. “You said something back there. In the hangar.”
She freezes.
“I say a lot of things,” she says too fast.
“Not like that.” I turn to face her, making sure she can’t dodge it. “You said I was the reason you stayed.”
She doesn’t answer. Not right away.
Then: “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Then how did you mean it?”
“Gods, Naull,” she snaps, shoving up from the bench and pacing a tight circle. “Why do you always have to push?”
“Because you run,” I say, rising too. “Every time we get close. Every time something real cracks through that sarcasm suit you wear like armor.”
“You’re reading into nothing.”
“No, I’m reading into everything. The way you hover when I’m wounded. The way you patch Whiplash like it’s your damn heartbeat. The way you look at me when you think I’m not watching.”
She goes still.
“I hate you,” she says softly.
“No, you want to hate me. But you don’t. And that’s what’s messing with you.”
She shakes her head, jaw clenched. “This is war, Naull. Not some slow-burn romance novel.”
“Maybe it’s both.”
“You’re impossible.”
“You’re stunning.”
She flinches. Barely. But I catch it.
I step forward, slow this time. Not fast. Not loud. I take one of her hands—mechanic-worn, calloused, steady despite her temper.
“I’m not saying I deserve you,” I murmur. “I know I’m a mess. I know I’m too much. Too loud. Too reckless. But I see you, Aria. Not just the tech or the brain or the bad attitude. I see you.”
She swallows hard.
“I don’t know what to do with that,” she whispers.
“Try not running.”
For a beat, she doesn’t breathe.
Then she sighs, a long, shuddering thing, and sits back down like her knees gave out. Her hand’s still in mine.
“You want to know something stupid?” she says, voice tired now.
“Always.”
“I keep thinking about what you said. About honor. About how those delay dampeners insult it.”
I grin. “You mocking me again?”
“No. I think I get it.”
I blink. “You what now?”
She shrugs, suddenly shy. “It’s not about the system. It’s about trusting your instincts. About letting something react as fast as you feel.”
I stare.
“Who are you and what did you do with Aria Sanchez?”
She glares at me, but it’s softer now. “Don’t get used to it.”
“I never get used to anything,” I say, leaning in just enough to feel her breath. “Except maybe you.”
She doesn’t pull away.
Outside, the winds scream. The whole corridor groans like it’s being peeled open by a god. But in here, it’s just us. Breathing the same electric air.
I could kiss her. Right now.
Could lean in that last inch and finally feel the mouth that talks like a whip and smiles like a secret.
But I don’t.
Not yet.
Because she’s not pulling away, but she’s not pulling closer, either.
And this—whatever this is—deserves patience. Not something I’m good at, but for her?
I’ll learn.
The next day, Commander Wex is up my ass again.
Not metaphorically. I mean, he’s literally three inches from my left shoulder, breathing through his nose like a malfunctioning air recycler while I try to keep from punching the command deck's bulkhead.
“Sector Nine is unstable,” he growls, arms behind his back like he’s auditioning for sternest bastard alive. “You will pilot Whiplash at 0600. No delays. No excuses.”
“Yeah,” I mutter, popping the kinks out of my neck, “except for the small issue where the Meld system is spitting up errors like it ate bad sushi.”
He narrows his eyes. “Fix it.”
I glance toward Aria, who’s hunched over the interface board like it owes her money. She doesn’t look up. Doesn’t need to. Her fingers dance across the haptic keys, punching in commands with surgical precision.
“We are fixing it,” I say. “But I need her brain cooperating with mine, and right now, she’s got the psychic shutters bolted shut.”
She snorts without looking over. “Maybe your brain should try knocking before kicking the damn door in.”
Wex stares between us, jaw tight, and lets out a long, weary sigh. “Resolve this. Quickly.”
He stomps off in a flurry of coat flaps and bad vibes, and I wait until he’s fully gone before rolling my eyes so hard they nearly clank.
“I swear, that man dreams in grayscale.”
“You know he can probably still hear you, right?” Aria mutters.
“Then maybe he should try listening when I say we’re not Meld-ready.” I walk toward the cockpit, tapping on the neural housing with one claw. “It’s like pairing a nuke with a blender. Something’s gonna explode.”
“I’m the blender in that metaphor, aren’t I?”
I grin. “You said it, not me.”
She slams the panel shut, steps back, and crosses her arms. Her eyes cut sharp across the room, and the fluorescents catch the flecks of gold in her irises.
Most humans blink too much. Aria stares like she’s running equations in her head and you’re either part of the solution or about to be deleted.
“I don’t trust you,” she says.
It’s blunt. Honest. Maybe even brave.
I respect it.
“That’s fair,” I say, softer now. “But we need to get past it. Fast.”
“Why?” Her voice doesn’t rise. If anything, it drops. “Because you say so?”
“No,” I say. “Because if we don’t get inside each other’s heads, we’re both gonna die.”
That gets her.
She exhales, steps closer. Not much—half a pace—but enough.
“Meld isn’t magic,” she says. “It’s a bioelectrical neural sync layered with emotional compatibility and psychological trust.”
“Exactly,” I say. “So... what’s the blockage?”
She shoots me a look. “You.”
That stings more than it should.
But I nod. “Okay. Let’s start there. What is it? My face? My tail? My charming personality?”
She doesn’t laugh. Not really. But her lips twitch. Progress.
“You’re reckless,” she says. “You act before thinking. You treat life like it’s a joke.”
I take a deep breath. “And you treat it like a math problem. All logic, no instinct.”
“That’s not fair.”
“It’s not wrong.”
She crosses her arms tighter, gaze narrowing. “I grew up having to calculate everything. There was no backup plan, Naull. No safety net. If I failed, I fell. So yeah, I’m cautious.”
I nod. “And I grew up fighting things twice my size with teeth longer than my femur. Fast kept me alive. Calculating got me eaten.”
Something softens in her face. Just a little. A crease smoothing.
“I’m not asking you to change,” I say. “I’m just asking you to meet me in the middle. Just for a second. Just long enough to sync.”
She stares at the console. Then at me.
“You said we have to get inside each other’s heads,” she mutters.
I nod.
She lifts her chin, defiant. “Not your type, Vakutan.”
“But maybe you’re mine,” I say, voice low and real. “Whether you like it or not.”
The silence between us crackles. Static. Something hot and coiled, just under the surface. Every time we talk like this—really talk—it feels like standing on the edge of a cliff with a live wire wrapped around your ribs.
“You’re infuriating,” she mutters.
“And you’re electric.”
“You always flirt when the world’s ending?”
“Only when it counts.”
She rolls her eyes and turns back to the Meld seat, but I see it—the flush along her throat, the way her fingers tremble just a little when she resets the neural sync cap.
“All right,” she says. “Let’s try it again.”
My grin fades. This is the real part. The hard part. The dangerous part.
We strap in. Connect the neural ports. The room hums with tension and low-frequency energy. The Meld interface pulses between us—a half-light sphere waiting to bridge the gap.
I close my eyes. Breathe in. Let my thoughts slow. Not silence—just space.
Then I reach.
My mind brushes hers like fingertips over static glass. She jerks—just a mental flinch—but I wait. Soften. No jokes. No bluster.
Just me.
I let her feel it. The chaos. The heat. But also the pulse beneath it. The steel-core steadiness I keep buried under bravado. The part of me that never left a fallen squadmate behind. The part that remembers names, even when it hurts.
For a heartbeat—two—I feel her reaching back.
Precision. Fire. Grief knotted so deep I almost cry from it. Her mind is a machine of glass and lightning. Beautiful. Brutal. Brilliant.
The sync flickers green.
Then red.
Then static.
Aria rips the cap off, gasping.
“Dammit!”
I exhale, blinking hard. “That was closer.”
She shakes her head. “It’s not enough.”
“It’s a start.”
“We need to be ready by morning,” she snaps.
“And we will be.”
She stares at me. “How can you be so sure?”
“Because,” I say, rising and walking around the console to face her again. “When we fight together, even without the Meld... it still feels like we’re in sync.”
She doesn’t answer.
She just stands there, chest rising and falling, hands clenched.
“You’re scared,” I say, not as an insult. Just a truth.
She doesn’t deny it.
“You think letting me in means letting your guard down. That I’ll see something you don’t want me to see.”
I step closer, close enough to feel the heat off her skin.
“I’ve already seen it, Aria. The fire. The brilliance. The loyalty that burns so bright it could blind a god. And I want more. Not to use. Not to break. Just to know.”
Her breath catches.
And then, just for a second, she leans forward.
Not much.
But enough.
Enough that I can smell the sweat and metal and faint trace of lemon on her skin.
Enough that I don’t need the Meld to feel the connection.
It’s already there.
It’s always been there.