Page 28 of Return to Sender
Together.
8
Surrender & Systems Failure
Wi’kar
Thehyperspacetransitioncompleteswith its familiar dimensional shiver, leaving us in the strange, nebula-filtered light of the Cressida system. Through the medical bay’s viewport, I can see the swirling cosmic dust that will help mask our energy signature from pursuit.
We are safe, for now. Hidden. Alone.
The realization settles between us with unexpected weight. No immediate threats. No urgent tactical decisions. Just Dominique and myself, standing in the quiet aftermath of admissions that have fundamentally altered something between us.
“So,” she says, breaking the silence, her voice carrying that particular tone I’m learning to recognize—the one that usually precedes trouble. “We’re officially off the books now?”
“We have been ‘off the books’ since our departure from Klethian,” I remind her, my voice slightly strained as I try not to notice how she’s moved closer to me in the confined space of the medical bay. “This merely represents a continuation of our unauthorized status.”
She steps closer still, and I catch the full force of her scent—warm, alive, distinctly her. The medical bay’s recycled air carries traces of her pheromones, and despite my species’ usual emotional control, I find my pupils dilating in response.
“You know what I think?” she says, her voice taking on a challenging edge as she moves close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from her body. “I think you’re enjoying this. Breaking the rules. Being unpredictable. Making your own choices for once.”
The accusation strikes uncomfortably close to a truth I am not prepared to examine. “Your assessment is incorrect. This situation represents a significant professional failure and personal compromise.”
“Is that so?” She moves closer still, until the distance between us violates all protocols for appropriate diplomatic spacing. I cansee the gold flecks in her eyes, the way her lips part slightly as she looks up at me. “Then why can I see your pulse racing at your throat? Why do your hands keep flexing like you want to touch me?”
I step back, attempting to reestablish proper distance, but my movement brings me against the medical equipment cabinet. “Environmental stress factors cause elevated cardiovascular response. It is a normal physiological reaction.”
“Liar,” she says, but the word holds no malice—rather, it sounds almost... affectionate. “You’re a terrible liar for a courier, Wi’kar.”
The ship’s engines settle into their hyperspace rhythm, the subtle vibration a reminder that we are now truly isolated, cut off from any external oversight or intervention. I should return to the bridge. I should monitor our trajectory. I should review our security protocols.
Instead, I remain frozen in place as Dominique closes the distance between us once more.
“You saved me,” she says quietly, her hand coming up to rest against my chest, directly over my heart. The contact sends fire through my nervous system. “Not because of some archaic bonding clause or diplomatic obligation. You saved me because you wanted to. Because something in you recognized something in me.”
“That is an emotional interpretation lacking factual basis,” I respond, my voice not entirely steady. Her hand is warm through the fabric of my uniform, and I can feel my heart racing beneath her palm.
“Is it?” She reaches up with her other hand, her fingers hovering near the luminescent patterns at my temple—not quite touching, but close enough that I can feel the heat of her skin. “Then why are you afraid to admit it?”
“I am not afraid.” The denial sounds hollow even to my own ears. “I am concerned about the tactical implications of our current situation. The bounty on both our identities. The diplomatic complications. The—”
“Shut up,” she interrupts, and then her hand slides to the back of my neck, pulling me down with surprising strength for someone recently injured.
The kiss is not gentle. It is not cautious or measured or appropriate. It is a collision—her mouth against mine, demanding, challenging. For 2.4 seconds, I remain frozen, every protocol and training routine screaming for disengagement.
Then something inside me shifts—breaks—surrenders.
My hands move to her waist, steadying her against the cabinet behind me, but they do not release her once stability is assured. Instead, I find myself pulling her closer, responding to her kiss with an intensity that shocks me.
She tastes of adrenaline and defiance and something uniquely her that makes my head spin. Her body against mine disrupts every system of control I have spent a lifetime perfecting. The luminescent sheen across my skin—visible now at my temples and along my hands where they rest at her waist—pulse with my heartbeat in a complete surrender of physiological restraint that would be mortifying if I could spare any cognitive function for embarrassment.
But there is only this moment. This human in my arms. This sensation that defies all rational categorization.
The kiss deepens, her uninjured hand tangling in my hair, disrupting its precise arrangement. I should care. I do not. My own hands tighten at her waist, then slide up her back, mapping the contours of her body through the thin medical gown with a thoroughness that would be scientific if it weren’t so desperate.
A sound escapes her—a small, pleased noise that resonates through me like a physical force. In response, I back her againstthe medical platform, caging her with my body in a manner that violates every principle of careful respect I have ever been taught.
She does not seem to object. Quite the contrary—her response intensifies, her body arching into mine, her teeth catching my lower lip in a gesture that sends a shock of sensation directly to my core.
