Page 59 of Return to Sender
As the stars blur past us and we slip into the safety of hyperspace, Wi’kar turns to me with an expression of heat and promise that makes my breath catch and my pulse race with anticipation.
“Four days until we reach our assignment,” he observes, rising from his chair with predatory grace that makes me feel like prey in the most delicious way possible.
“Four days,” I agree, standing to meet him halfway with my own predatory intent. “However will we pass the time?”
His answer is wordless but extremely thorough and involves backing me against the bulkhead with the kind of controlled intensity that makes me grateful for AXIS’s privacy protocols. When his mouth captures mine with claiming possession, I reflect that OOPS really does provide the most comprehensive benefits package in the galaxy.
Starting with enhanced stress relief protocols and unlimited personal time with the galaxy’s most precisely passionate courier.
“Welcome to OOPS, Partner Dominique,” Wi’kar murmurs against my lips with possessive satisfaction, and the title makes me smile with pure, uncomplicated joy.
Partner. Mate. Chosen family. Professional colleague. The words taste like freedom, like home, like everything I never knew I was missing until I found it in the arms of an uptight alien courier with a secret romantic streak.
As we disappear into hyperspace, heading toward our first official mission and whatever adventures the galaxy might offer two people who have already survived princes, bounty hunters, and diplomatic immunity violations, I finally understand what Mother meant when she said OOPS delivers everything exactly where it belongs.
Sometimes the package you’re meant to deliver is yourself.
And sometimes, if you’re very lucky, the destination turns out to be exactly where you were always supposed to be, with exactly the right person to share the journey.
Package delivered. Mission accomplished. New adventure beginning.
Perfect parameters, indeed.
18
Advanced Partnership Protocols
Dominique
EpiloguePart1
I’ve discovered that nothing in the galaxy is more entertaining than watching a hyper-disciplined Gluxian try to maintain his composure while I systematically dismantle it with the precision of a master tactician. Especially when that Gluxian is my husband, my OOPS partner, and my willing accomplice in what Mother Morrison now calls “the most successful protocol deviation in postal service history.”
A year. It’s been exactly one standard year, three months, two weeks, and five days since Diplomat Merida Toner declared us free agents and Mother sent us on our “cultural research” mission to Huxaria Prime. Twelve months since we legally became partners in every sense that matters, and Wi’kar still gets that particular shade of midnight blue in his patterns when anyone mentions our honeymoon assignment.
Not that it was technically a honeymoon. Officially, we were conducting diplomatic courier services and inter-species compatibility research. Unofficially, we spent three weeks at the galaxy’s most exclusive couples’ resort learning exactly how compatible we could be. AXIS still has those mission reports filed under “Educational Protocols: Comprehensive Research and Development” with a security classification that makes Mother snort with amusement every time someone requests access.
Currently, I’m sprawled across our king-sized bunk in our significantly upgraded quarters aboard the Protocol Prime—now officially registered as a two-person courier vessel with “specialized diplomatic capabilities.” The space has evolved dramatically over the past year, transforming from Wi’kar’s sterile efficiency pod into something that actually resembles a home designed for two people who occasionally need to kill time between planets in creative ways.
My side of the quarters features what Wi’kar diplomatically calls “organized creative chaos”: intelligence reports scattered across a custom-built research station, a collection of “liberated” cultural artifacts from our various missions, and what Mother Morrison euphemistically termed my “tactical wardrobe options”—disguises ranging from innocent trade delegate to sultry information broker, each carefully catalogued by my perfectionist husband according to mission effectiveness ratings.
His side remains pristine, naturally. Color-coded uniforms arranged by frequency of use, precision equipment organized according to both function and aesthetic appeal, and a growing collection of cultural gifts from grateful clients who appreciate OOPS’s dedication to discretion and our particular brand of problem-solving efficiency.
The datapad in my hands displays our latest assignment briefing, and I’m trying very hard not to laugh at Mother’s increasingly creative attempts to send us on romantic missions disguised as legitimate courier work. This time, it’s a “cultural exchange” mission to the crystalline cities of Joid'oria Prime, where the local nobility apparently requires “specialized diplomatic courier services with proven inter-species relationship expertise.”
Mother’s not even pretending anymore. She’s essentially running a matchmaking service for the galaxy’s most notorious reformed fugitives, and we’re her star success story.
The door to our quarters slides open with its familiar soft hiss, and Wi’kar steps inside carrying a steaming mug of what I know is perfectly calibrated morning stimulant blend—two parts Alterian coffee, one part Terran tea, with a micro-dose of Centauri sweetener calibrated to my exact biochemical preferences. A year of living together has taught him my morning routine with scientific precision.
“See anything you like, Agent Perfect?” I drawl without looking up from the mission briefing, though every nerve ending is hyperaware of his presence through our bond. After a year of marriage, the connection between us has evolved from accidental diplomatic complication to something that feels essential, like oxygen or stellar navigation.
“Several things,” he replies, his voice carrying that distinctive Gluxian resonance that still sends pleasant shivers down my spine despite daily exposure. “Though I must note that your current position violates approximately seventeen different ergonomic guidelines for optimal datapad usage and threatens to compromise long-term spinal health.”
I do look up now, grinning at the familiar complaint. Wi’kar stands exactly where I expected, holding his own datapad with characteristic precision, wearing his black OOPS uniform with the kind of immaculate perfection that suggests he probably has a checklist for getting dressed. The silver patterns across his visible skin pulse with calm azure—his baseline contentment.
But I can read the subtler signs that twelve months of intimate knowledge have taught me to interpret: the fractional softening around his eyes when he looks at me, the almost imperceptible curve at the corner of his mouth that counts as unbridled joy in Wi’kar’s emotional vocabulary, the way his patterns shift toward warmer blues when he settles into what he now unconsciously thinks of as “home.”
“Ergonomics,” I inform him with serious consideration, “are significantly overrated when compared to comfort optimization. Besides, I’m conducting critical analysis of our next assignment briefing. Apparently, the Joid'orians require ‘specialized relationship expertise’ for their crystal bonding ceremonies.”
