Page 21 of Starlight, Starbright
Zoric stands against the far wall, arms crossed, his posture rigid in a way that suggests he's been standing there a while.
“Captain.” My voice comes out steadier than I expected.
“Chief Martin.” He pushes off the wall, moving toward me. “Medical cleared you?”
“Clean scan. No issues.” I'm suddenly, acutely aware of how close he is. “You didn't have to wait.”
“Yes,” he says quietly. “I did.”
Something in his tone breaks through the last of my control. Without thinking, I step forward and wrap my arms around him.
He freezes. Goes absolutely still for half a heartbeat. Then his arms come around me, careful and deliberate, like he's afraid I might shatter.
“I'm okay,” I whisper into his chest. His uniform is warm against my face, and underneath I can feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. Faster than human normal. “I'm okay.”
We stand like that for several seconds, long enough for me to catalog details I've never been close enough to notice before. The way he smells up close, not just metal and recycled air, but something warmer, almost like sun-heated stone. The fact that his body temperature really is higher than human normal, radiating through the fabric between us. The way his breathing has changed, slower and deeper.
I pull back naturally, not wanting to but knowing I should. His arms release me immediately, and I see him take a deliberate step backward. Creating distance.
“Thank you,” I say. “For talking me through it. I don't think I would have made it back without your voice.”
“You would have.” His voice is rough. “You're the most resourceful person on this ship.”
“Maybe. But it helped. Hearing you.” I meet his eyes. “Hearing you care.”
Something flickers across his face. “I do. Care. More than is perhaps appropriate.”
The admission hangs between us. I should probably acknowledge it. Address it. But the medical bay corridor isn't the place for that conversation.
“We should review the communication logs,” I say instead. “Make sure the array is fully functional.”
“Agreed.” He gestures toward the corridor. “My office?”
“Lead the way.”
His office is dim except for the glow from his work screens. He hasn't turned on the overhead lights, and in the blue-white illumination from the displays, his markings are even more visible than usual.
There's a plate on his desk. Christmas cookies from the mess hall, untouched.
“I brought those earlier,” I say, settling into the chair across from him. “The children helped bake them. They're enthusiastic but not exactly skilled.”
He picks one up, examines it like he's analyzing a technical schematic, then takes a bite. His expression shifts. Not disgust exactly, but something close.
I laugh. Can't help it. “I warned you.”
“You did.” He sets the cookie down carefully. “Perhaps tradition can be observed without consumption.”
“Probably wise.” I pull up the communication logs on my tablet, but I'm hyperaware of him across the desk.
“Your markings,” I say, before I can stop myself. “I researched after the asteroid field. The xenobiologist's theories suggest gold indicates attraction. Personal connection.”
The silence stretches.
“Yes,” he says finally. “That's... one interpretation.”
“So when they turn gold around me...” I let the sentence trail off.
“It means what you think it means.” His voice has dropped lower. “I've been attempting to control the response. Obviously, I've failed.”
