Page 22 of Starlight, Starbright
“I don't want you to control it.” The words come out before I can think them through. “I like knowing what you're feeling.”
His hands are flat on the desk. I watch them press down slightly, like he's anchoring himself. He says my name—”Paige”—and something in my chest loosens.
“Yeah?”
“I'm your commanding officer. The power dynamic alone makes any personal relationship problematic. And my culture considers visible marking responses shameful. Evidence of poor discipline.” He's explaining, justifying, building a case. “There are numerous logical reasons why we shouldn't?—”
“I know.” I lean forward. “I know all of that. But I also know how I feel when I'm around you. How I felt out there on the hull with your voice in my ear. How I feel right now, sitting across from you, watching your markings turn gold because you can't hide it anymore.”
“And how do you feel?” The question emerges quiet. Almost cautious.
“Like I want to touch them.” I gesture to the markings on his temple. “Like I've wanted to since the first time I saw them change colors. Like I want to know if they're warm or if the light is just visual.”
His markings flare brighter. “They're warm.”
“Are they?” I start to reach toward him, then stop. “May I?”
“No.” The word comes out strained. He closes his eyes. “If you touch me now, I won't be able to stop myself from...”
He doesn't finish. Just sits there, eyes closed, hands pressed flat to his desk, markings blazing gold across every visible inch of skin.
The air between us feels charged. Heavy. I can hear my own breathing, too fast. Can see his chest rising and falling. Can see the exact moment he opens his eyes and looks at me.
The expression on his face makes my stomach flip.
“We should work,” he says, but doesn't move. “The communication logs.”
“Right.” I don't move either. “The logs.”
Neither of us picks up a tablet.
“This is a problem,” I finally say.
“Yes.”
“We're supposed to be investigating sabotage. Finding whoever's trying to kill us.”
“Correct.”
“And instead we're sitting here staring at each other like teenagers.”
His mouth curves very slightly. “An accurate assessment.”
I force myself to stand. “I should go. Before I do something we'll both regret.”
“Would you regret it?” He stands as well. “That's a genuine question. Because I'm not certain I would.”
The honesty in his voice pins me in place. “No,” I admit. “I don't think I would either. But that doesn't mean it's a good idea.”
“The best ideas rarely are.” He moves around the desk, and suddenly we're much too close. “I'll walk you to your quarters.”
“You don't have to do that.”
“I know.”
We leave his office, moving through the ship's night-quiet corridors. Most of the crew is off-shift, and we pass only ahandful of people. The ones we do pass notice us. Notice the way we're walking a careful meter apart.
The Christmas decorations have multiplied since last week. Lights strung along the ceiling rails, casting colored shadows. Synthetic garland wrapped around support beams. A few brave souls have hung small ornaments on random fixtures, transforming utilitarian metal into something warmer.
