Page 56 of Naughty List Delivery
“Understood,” he says, his voice already taking on that edge that means he’s cataloging threat assessments and weapons configurations. “Any additional intelligence on the threat level?”
“Pirates have been hitting medical transports in that sector,” Mother replies with characteristic bluntness. “Nothing our favorite team can’t handle, but stay sharp. These aren’t desperate scavengers—someone’s organizing them.”
“Copy that,” I say, already mentally shifting into mission mode even as I’m still very much enjoying being connected to my mate. “We’ll be ready.”
“Good. And Jaxson? Try not to let your security consultant get too protective during the mission. The colony needs those supplies, not a demonstration of Felaxian territorial instincts.”
The comm clicks off, leaving us staring at each other in the sudden quiet.
“Organized pirates,” Ober says thoughtfully, and I can practically see him cataloging weapons configurations and escape routes. “Targeting medical supplies specifically.”
“Medical emergency,” I counter, already thinking about optimal flight paths and delivery protocols. “People are dying while we analyze the tactical situation.”
“Both,” we say together, and suddenly we’re grinning like idiots.
It’s been like this for a year—the perfect balance of his strategic thinking and my get-things-done practicality. Where I see people who need help, he sees the threats that might prevent that help from arriving. Where he sees tactical complexities, I see solutions that cut straight to the heart of the problem.
“Ready for another adventure?” I ask, finally lifting myself off him with a reluctance that speaks to just how much I enjoy being exactly where I was.
“With you? Always,” he says, but his hands linger on my hips, reluctant to let me go. “Though I reserve the right to be extremely protective if anyone so much as looks at you wrong.”
“I wouldn’t expect anything less,” I tell him, leaning down to kiss him one more time before we have to become professionals again. “Just try to save some of the territorial claiming for after we deliver the supplies.”
“Deal,” he agrees, then his expression turns wicked. “But I make no promises about what happens during the flight back.”
The promise in his voice sends heat spiraling through me all over again, and I realize that after a year of this—of missions and danger and lazy mornings and desperate nights—I’m still not tired of him. Still want him. Still choose him, every single day.
As we reluctantly disentangle ourselves and start preparing for another day of legitimate adventure, I catch sight of our reflection in the mirror across the room. Two people who’ve found their place in the universe, who’ve built something real and lasting from the wreckage of their separate pasts.
The woman in the mirror has scars—some visible, some not—but she also has something the old Noomi never had. Purpose. Partnership. The kind of contentment that comes from knowing exactly where you belong.
A year ago, I thought joining OOPs meant giving up excitement for safety.
I was wrong.
It meant trading reckless danger for purposeful adventure, criminal uncertainty for legitimate challenge, and the loneliness of running from my past for the joy of building a future with someone who loves all of me—including the parts I used to think were too broken to deserve happiness.
“Ready to save some lives and probably blow something up in the process?” I ask, pulling on my courier uniform with practiced efficiency.
“As long as I’m doing it with you,” Ober replies, strapping on his weapons harness with the same casual competence, “I’m ready for anything.”
Six hours later, somewhere between Kepler-442b and Junction One
“Medical supplies delivered successfully,” I report to Mother over the comm, trying to keep my voice professional despite the fact that Ober’s hands are currently doing very unprofessional things to my shoulders as I sit in the pilot’s chair. “Colony officials expressed their gratitude for the expedited delivery. The outbreak has been contained.”
“Good work,” Mother replies. “Any issues with the pirate activity in that sector?”
“Nothing we couldn’t handle,” Ober says smoothly, his fingers working at a knot of tension in my neck that definitely wasn’t there when we left Junction One this morning. “Five ships tried to intercept us on approach. They’re currently reconsidering their career choices.”
I bite back a laugh. “Reconsidering” is a polite way of saying their ships are now floating debris and they’re stranded on an asteroid with emergency beacons, waiting for STI pickup. The organized pirates turned out to be significantly less organized when faced with Ober’s tactical expertise and my creative interpretation of standard evasion protocols.
“Excellent. Any intel on who was backing them?”
“Working theory involves someone with a grudge against medical supply chains,” I manage, then nearly lose my composure entirely as Ober’s tail snakes around my waist, the tip trailing along my ribs with maddening precision. “We recovered some interesting communication logs.”
“Good. Forward those to Luzrak for analysis. ETA for return?”
“Four hours,” I say, my voice slightly strained as Ober’s massage becomes decidedly less therapeutic and more exploratory. “Barring any additional... complications.”
