Page 45 of Return to Sender
The sound he makes is definitely not contractor-appropriate, and I smile as his patterns pulse brighter despite his efforts at control.
The fuel depot occupies a vast section of the station’s core, with massive storage tanks and distribution systems creating a maze of industrial equipment. The attendant here is bored and efficient, processing our request for specialized fuel cells with minimal conversation.
“Forty minutes for processing,” he drones. “Payment in advance.”
“Acceptable,” Wi’kar replies, transferring credits from an account I’m certain he established specifically for this cover identity. “We’ll wait.”
He guides me to a small seating area with a clear view of both the depot entrance and processing area. The positioning is tactical—Wi’kar can monitor approaches while appearing to simply wait for our order.
Sitting this close to him in public feels like a different kind of danger. Every time he shifts, I catch his scent, remember the way he whispered my name last night. When his hand covers mine on the table, ostensibly casual, his thumb strokes across my knuckles in a pattern that makes my breath catch.
“Focus,” he murmurs, but his voice has gone rougher.
“I am focused,” I whisper back. “Just not on fuel cells.”
His grip tightens slightly, and I feel the subtle tension in his frame that suggests he’s fighting the same awareness I am.
“You do this often?” I ask quietly, settling beside him and letting my thigh press against his. “The spy contractor thing?”
“OOPS diplomatic missions occasionally require... flexibility,” he admits, his hand moving to rest on my knee in what appears to be a casual gesture but feels possessive. “Though typically the stakes are less personal.”
“Less personal how?” I ask, enjoying the way his fingers flex against my leg.
“Previously, I have never been... invested in the outcome beyond professional success,” he says carefully. “The risk assessment calculations change when the mission parameters include protecting someone who has become... essential.”
The word ‘essential’ hits me like a physical caress. “Essential?”
“To optimal operational outcomes,” he clarifies, but the heat in his eyes tells a different story.
“Just operational outcomes?”
Before he can respond, the depot’s entrance chimes with new arrivals. Four figures in Human Concord Royal Guard armor stride in, their crimson and gold ceremonial gear unmistakable even at a distance.
My heart stops, but Wi’kar’s response is immediate and telling—his hand tightens protectively on my knee, his body shifting slightly to shield me from view. “Wi’kar—”
“I see them.” His voice remains calm, but I feel the tension in his frame as he evaluates tactical options. “Remain calm. We are contractors. Nothing more.”
The guards spread out, beginning what appears to be a systematic search of the depot. One approaches the attendant’s station, while the others move to inspect various sections of the facility.
“They’re being thorough,” I whisper, watching as they check identification scanners and examine cargo manifests.
“Indeed.” Wi’kar’s hand finds mine beneath the table, the contact appearing casual but carrying reassurance I desperately need. His thumb strokes across my palm in soothing patterns that somehow calm my racing pulse. “However, our documentation is comprehensive. We have legitimate reason to be here.”
One of the guards approaches our section, his armored boots echoing against the metal deck plating. I force myself to lean back casually, playing the role of a bored contractor waiting for routine fuel delivery, but Wi’kar’s hand in mine anchors me.
“Identity verification,” the guard announces, scanner already active.
Wi’kar produces our documentation with practiced ease, his free hand never leaving mine. “Soren Valdez, Avalon Systems. This is my partner, Mira Dixin. We’re conducting routine maintenance surveys on civilian vessels.”
The scanner chirps as it processes our false identities. For a moment that stretches like eternity, we wait for the results. Wi’kar’s thumb continues its soothing stroke across my knuckles, the only sign that he’s not as calm as he appears.
“Verification complete,” the guard finally announces. “Purpose of visit?”
“Fuel cell acquisition for our survey vessel,” Wi’kar replies with exactly the right level of professional boredom. “Standard Type-7 cells for extended operations.”
The guard nods and moves on without further interest. Just another pair of contractors conducting routine business.
I don’t realize I’ve been holding my breath until Wi’kar squeezes my hand gently. The relief is so intense that I have to fight the urge to kiss him right there in the depot.
