Page 11 of Adrift!
Distracted by his own confusion, he wasn’t careful despite her admonition. Though the prick of the thorn was more a surprise than painful, both made him wince.
Remy clicked her tongue as he recoiled with a drop of blood on his fingertip. “Ijustsaid…” She peered closer. “Your blood is blue?”
“Different chemistry than yours.” Snagging the bar rag still in his back pocket, he swiped away the blood. “Only one heart to pump it, though, just like yours.”
She sucked in the corner of her lower lip, her brow furrowing. “But…you don’t feel hurt?”
“If I turn it down. But if I didn’t feel the pain, I might keep doing what hurts me.” He peered at his fingers. “And actually, itdoesstill hurt.”
“Let me see.” She wrapped her fingers loosely around his wrist, turning his hand toward one of the recessed lights nurturing the rose. “Looks like the tip of a thorn broke off. Ouch.”
Though he didn’t adjust his tactile sensitivity, he didn’t even feel that prick anymore. Instead, all he felt was her. The gentle, inexorable pressure of her hold sent electricity dancing through his augments, and silver blue sparks zinged up his forearm, reaching for his one, lonely heart.
He knew he should pull back. The wound was negligible, and this was exactly the kind of personal involvement the employee handbook warned against. But he’d have to break the circle of her fingers, and he could no more do that than jettison her out an airlock.
“It’s fine,” he said, though his voice came out rougher than intended. “I can remove it later.”
“It’s not too deep.” When she angled his hand higher, her thumb brushed over his knuckles. “Hold still.”
He held very still. Too still, probably, like his mechanical components had locked up, frozen despite the sudden voltage threatening to melt him from within. Watching her frown furiously at the tiny intrusion, feeling the warmth of her breathfeather across his skin, inhaling the lingering scent of Earth’s precious morning stimulant which was probably to blame for this absurd overreaction—
“Ha.” She looked up at him, triumphant, holding a miniscule fragment of the thorn between her polished fingernails. “Got it.”
They were close. Closer than they’d been even when he’d steadied her in the corridor. Close enough to count the amber flecks in her green eyes and the freckles across her cheeks if his ocular implant hadn’t already done it automatically. Close enough that when she smiled—really smiled for the first time since he’d met her—it hit him like a solar flare, blanking all coherent thought.
“You did,” he said, but he didn’t step back.
Neither did she. And though neither of them moved, the space between them seemed to shrink. Her amber/green irises shrank too, eclipsed by the blackness of expanding pupils, and her fingers, still wrapped around his wrist, trembled. The almost imperceptible sensation reverberated through him, a hundred-fold and amplifying.
“Remy…” He stopped himself. Any next words he might say were a mystery even to his universal translator.
Though he let out a slow, steadying breath, the heady fragrance of the roses swept in to fill the void. He hadn’t meant the short walk to the atmo-hall to take them so far off course. He’d only wanted to fill the isolation she’d clutched like an empty coffee cup.
Desperately, he tried to return the moment to safer ground—even if they were floating helplessly in an outlaw zone. “Maybe a flower with thorns is an odd choice to symbolize romance?”
She laughed, the sound catching low in her throat. “Yeah. Love hurts. Beauty will bleed you. A cruel message, isn’t it? Poetry is a problem.” She spread both hands, releasing him andbrushing the splinter back into the vine. “Maybe that’s why my songs never went anywhere.”
Every nerve and servo in his body ached at her abrupt distancing—from him, from the music she’d left behind. “Or perhaps the thorns are there not as a threat but a question, asking if you really want to touch the flower. If you’re willing to risk getting hurt for something beautiful.”
When she lifted her chin, a light glinted back at him. “I guess you’re writing the poetry now.”
There was challenge in her tone, but it was his lights reflecting in her eyes. And then her bold stare flickered down to his mouth—
His datpad chimed sharply against his wrist, and while he fumbled at the device, Remy took a long step back. Her freckles vanished in a flush of embarrassed color, as if the two of them had been caught at something forbidden.
She glanced away at another flowering vine, giving him a moment of privacy to check the message—a query from Chef Styr about supply discrepancies, requesting an urgent review of inventory.
She didn’t turn toward to him again. “Booze mutiny or something?”
That deliberate distance stung more than any thorn. In the fragrant air, the ghost of a kiss that didn’t happen faded like a forgotten melody.
“I have to go,” he said. “Chef needs my help.”
“Right. Back to work for you.” She spun on the heel of her fuzzy socks. “Thanks for showing me the flowers.” When she finally paused to glance back at him, she was too far for his augment lights to reach her now. “Am I allowed to come here by myself?”
The image of her beneath the tumbled roses—beautiful and so alone—pierced him. “If you like.”
He’d hoped that would make her smile again, but she just nodded. “You should probably go wash your hands. Wouldn’t want that to get infected and hurt worse.”
