Weeks later, Michael found himself on a routine supply run to the local shipyards in the Alpha Centauri star system. He ran through the checklist every shuttle commander was required to complete before launch: fuel levels—check, reactor status—check, oxygen levels and life support systems—check, navigation systems—check, communication systems—check, helm controls—check. It was a list he could recite in his sleep, and as the shuttle’s diagnostics ran through each system, he checked them off one by one.
“Commander?” Ensign Finnian O’Sullivan turned to Michael, his voice steady. “We’re ready for launch.”
Michael glanced over at the flight engineer. “Ready?”
“Yes, sir,” the engineer replied, giving Michael a thumbs-up.
“Ensign, signal Shipyard McKinley that we’re ready to disembark,” Michael ordered.
The Ensign tapped the comm panel. “Shipyard McKinley, we’re ready for launch.” A crackle of static followed—a small, unnoticed warning. “Shuttlecraft, you’re clear for launch,” came the response, though the slight distortion in the signal should have been a red flag. But all systems had checked out fine.
“Shuttlecraft six, disengaging mooring clamps in five,” O’Sullivan called out. “Four… three… two… one.”
The shuttle rocked as the mooring clamps released, and that’s when the HUD glitched—omen number two.
“Commander?” O’Sullivan’s voice was strained. “Something’s wrong with the heads-up display.”
The flight engineer began a quick diagnostic of the shuttle’s systems but looked up and shrugged. “I have no idea, sir. All systems are green.”
“Bullshit,” O’Sullivan cursed as he looked at the HUD. “I don’t care what the hell the diagnostics say, something—” He didn’t get to finish before the shuttle lurched hard to starboard.
“See?” O’Sullivan yelled. “What the hell is going on here?”
The flight engineer frantically tapped at his controls, but all the computer terminals turned dark. And if that wasn’t bad enough, the shuttle’s thrusters malfunctioned due to the loss of computer control, sending the shuttle spinning out of control. Everyone onboard was thrown hard against the port side of the shuttle, their restraints the only thing keeping them from being thrown about.
“Commander!” O’Sullivan shouted. “I’ve lost helm control. Switching to backups.”
He slammed the control panel in frustration, but nothing worked. Meanwhile, the flight engineer undid his restraints and dove under the control panel. “Commander?” Michael undid his restraints and followed the flight engineer under the panel.
“Commander!” the flight engineer shouted. “Pull cable 26B—that’s the backup power line to the computer systems. I’ll pull cable 26A, the main power cable; we need to—” He wasn’t able to finish as the shuttle lurched to the port side, sending both of them crashing into the panel above.
“Fuck!” the flight engineer cursed as he saw blood pouring from a gash on the back of Michael’s head. “The commander’s down!”
“Fuck!” O’Sullivan cursed, grabbing the manual thruster controls. They were still old-fashioned hydraulic chemical rockets, but controlling them was like trying to drive a car with no power steering—only worse.
“There!” the flight engineer shouted, looking up. “That should do it! Computers should be back up in…” He crawled out from under the control panel. “Five minutes.”
“We don’t have five minutes!” O’Sullivan shouted, pointing out the front window of the shuttle. “At best, we’ve got two minutes. One at worst!”
The flight engineer’s stomach dropped as he looked up and saw a massive asteroid looming directly ahead. The Great Mining Boom of the early 2300s had left countless rocks scattered throughout the system, and now they were heading straight for one.
“Fuck!” the flight engineer cursed under his breath.
“Would you shut the fuck up?” O’Sullivan shouted. “I’m trying to level out our descent so we don’t get ourselves skewered on one of those spikes!” he pointed at a huge spike ahead of them.
O’Sullivan’s muscles burned as he gripped the manual controls, his knuckles turning white with the effort. He pulled back on the yoke with everything he had.
“Get on the damn emergency radios and send out a distress call!” he ordered.
The flight engineer grabbed the short-range emergency radio. “Mayday! Mayday! I repeat… Mayday! Shuttlecraft six is down, I repeat… shuttlecraft six is down! Lost all systems, unable to maneuver. Mayday! We’re heading for an asteroid!”
“So much for this shuttle,” O’Sullivan muttered, thinking about the engineering team who had supposedly checked the shuttle. “If I get out of this alive, I’m going to ring their goddamn necks.”
The proximity alarm blared incessantly, each shrill beep a reminder that time was running out. Sweat beaded on O’Sullivan’s forehead as he gripped the manual controls tighter.
“Will you turn that goddamn thing off?” O’Sullivan shouted, his frustration mounting.
The flight engineer did as he was told, but his gaze was fixed on Michael, still unconscious and bleeding from where his head had struck the panel. Panic clawed at O’Sullivan’s chest, but he fought it down. He couldn’t afford to lose focus now. The shuttle, the asteroid, Michael—everything depended on him.
Then came the sickening sound of metal grinding against rock. O’Sullivan’s stomach dropped as the shuttle scraped the surface of the asteroid. Jagged outcroppings tore into the hull, puncturing it like a hot knife through butter.
Sparks flew, and the smell of burning electronics and ozone filled the cabin. The emergency lights flickered, barely able to keep up with the shuttle’s violent shuddering. The hull groaned in protest as the shuttle continued to scrape and shudder across the asteroid’s surface, O’Sullivan desperately trying to steer it away from certain death.
—
Meanwhile, in the CIC of Genesis, one of the communications officers picked up on a faint signal on the emergency bands.
“Commander Smith,” lieutenant Sylaris of the House of Moonshade, called out to him, “I’m receiving a mayday from shuttlecraft six. They’ve lost all systems, unable to maneuver.”
Richard’s face went white as a sheet, he knew that Michael was onboard.
—
The flight engineer had no idea if the signal had been transmitted—his emergency radio had cut out as he threw the malfunctioning device across the shuttle’s cockpit. “A fat lot of good that did!” he cursed, watching as an outcropping of the asteroid loomed closer. The sound of grinding and shearing metal filled his ears.
They had no thrusters to speak of—nothing to slow the inevitable collision with the asteroid.
“James!” O’Sullivan shouted. “Get the emergency air supplies! We’re going to need them in less than a minute!”
James scrambled to comply, grabbing the emergency breathing units—one for himself and two others for Michael and O’Sullivan. He handed one to O’Sullivan, who quickly strapped the unit to his face, the urgency clear in his movements.
O’Sullivan jumped out of his seat and dove under the control panel to attend to Michael, carefully strapping the mask to his face, moving his head as little as possible for fear of a cervical injury.
Once the mask was securely in place, O’Sullivan sprang back up to glance out the cockpit window.
“OH, FUCK!” he screamed.
The cockpit was filled with the deafening sound of the shuttle slamming into the asteroid. The impact sent a violent shudder through the entire vessel, metal screeching against rock as the hull buckled under the pressure.
O’Sullivan looked up in horror as he saw the shattered remains of the shuttle’s front cockpit window. The once-protected space was now completely exposed to the unforgiving vacuum of space. Cold, sterile blackness stretched out before him, and he could feel the bite of the void creeping through the cracks in the shuttle’s hull, gnawing at his bones. The only thing between him and the cold death of space were the emergency air masks they’d strapped to their faces.
He looked down at the controls of his emergency mask, his fingers trembling as he read the remaining air supply. “Fuck, six hours,” he muttered, the weight of their situation settling in. He slumped against his seat, the cold of the vacuum pressing in around him, as if it was somehow already starting to claim him. “Whatever we do, we have to conserve air,” he said through clenched teeth, trying to force some semblance of clarity into his mind.
His gaze shifted back to the flight engineer, and his stomach twisted. The poor bastard had slammed against the shuttle’s hull with enough force to crack his skull open and bits of his brain matter floated eerily in the cabin, a grotesque reminder of just how quickly things had gone wrong. The sight made O’Sullivan’s blood run cold, but he couldn’t afford to let it overwhelm him. They had to survive, no matter how impossible that seemed.
O’Sullivan watched Michael struggle to rise, the effort clearly costing him. He quickly placed a hand on Michael’s shoulder, trying to steady him. “Sir, don’t get up. You’re injured.”
Michael’s hand instinctively moved to the back of his head, his fingers brushing against the wound. When he pulled his hand back, it was covered in blood.
He winced, pain lancing through him, but his focus was clear. “How’s the flight engineer?”
“Dead,” O’Sullivan replied, his voice flat, the weight of the words hitting harder than anything he could say aloud.
Michael cursed under his breath, his face contorted in both frustration and agony. Slowly, he climbed into his seat, each movement sending waves of pain through his body. He gritted his teeth against it, but it was a struggle just to stay conscious. The thought of their situation—of how quickly everything had fallen apart—pressed down on him like the cold vacuum outside.
Michael glanced back at where the flight engineer’s body was slumped against the hull, his skull shattered, and blood globules drifting aimlessly in the zero-gravity cabin. The grotesque scene burned into his mind, but his lips curled into a bitter smile.
“All the king’s horses and all the king’s men couldn’t put Humpty Dumpty back together again,” he muttered, the dark humor rolling off his tongue.
“Michael?” O’Sullivan asked, deadpan as he tightened his grip on the emergency mask’s straps. “Has anyone ever told you that you have a sick, twisted, demented sense of humor?”
“Yes,” Michael replied, turning to face the Ensign but immediately regretting it. Pain shot through his body like a hot blade, and he groaned, pressing a hand to his throbbing head. “It comes from all the shit I’ve seen in my time in the Space Force.”
O’Sullivan gave him a long look, his expression somewhere between exasperation and begrudging admiration. “Well, it’s comforting to know you haven’t lost your touch.”
Michael let out a humorless chuckle before grimacing. “It’s either laugh or lose my mind, and trust me, I’ve had enough of the second option.”
O’Sullivan shook his head, a rueful smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Me too,” he said quietly. He glanced at Michael, his tone turning curious. “How long have you been in?”
“Ten years,” Michael replied with a scoff, leaning back against his seat and wincing at the sharp ache in his ribs. “And believe you me, I’ve seen some shit in my day.”
O’Sullivan’s expression softened, the weight of Michael’s words cutting through the thin veneer of humor they’d been using to cope. “Ouch,” he muttered, his voice quieter now, almost apologetic. “I joined up right after the war ended, I’ve even seen combat yet.”
“You’re lucky,” Michael shook his head as he remembered all the people he had knew that had died, “I’ve seen friends, even someone who I loved, die during the war. Way too many friends man,” he sighed, “way too many.”
“Loved?” O’Sullivan asked.
“Yeah,” Michael looked down, the gash on the back of his neck making him wince, “my wife died, she was on another ship, and it went down, all hands.” Michael leaned his head back against the chair, his gaze distant. “Yeah. She… she didn’t make it through the war.” His voice faltered for a moment, and he took a steadying breath. “One moment, we were planning our future—a second child. The next…” He trailed off, his hand absently brushing the blood matted in his hair.
O’Sullivan didn’t press, letting the silence linger just long enough to respect the loss. “I’m sorry, sir. For what it’s worth.”
Michael gave a faint nod, a bitter smile tugging at his lips. “It’s worth plenty. Thanks.”
O’Sullivan shifted in his seat, the gnawing cold of space and their dwindling air supplies momentarily forgotten. “I can’t imagine. Losing someone like that… it changes you.”
“Yeah,” he nodded, “it does, the loss of my wife sent me into a dark place.” O’Sullivan didn’t press, he knew what he meant; he had heard it from countless others in the service who had lost friends and loved ones during the war with the then ACF. “But now,” he smiled as he conjured up the vision of Triara in his mind, “I have someone new in my life. Someone that when I get back, I need to tell her what she means to me. I have to tell her that I love her.”
“How long have you been with her?” O’Sullivan asked. “That is, if you don’t mind me asking.”
“Five, maybe six months,” he scoffed, “time has been slipping away.”
“Six months and you haven’t told her yet?” O’Sullivan looked at him with an old-fashioned look. “What the hell are you waiting for dude? Tell the little lady what she means to you.”
“Oh,” Michael sighed, leaning back slightly, “I very much intend to tell Triara what she means to me.”
“Triara?” O’Sullivan asked, his brow furrowing. “That doesn’t sound like a human name.”
“That’s because it isn’t,” Michael replied with a small smile. “She’s a Zaltaen.”
O’Sullivan’s eyebrows shot up. “A Zaltaen? Seriously? I didn’t think they were… you know, the type to mix with humans.”
Michael chuckled, a dry yet genuine sound. “They’re not, generally speaking. But Triara’s different—way different.” He reached into his flight suit and pulled out his datapad, scrolling for a moment before holding it out. “Here, take a look. This was from one of our dates.”
O’Sullivan took the datapad and studied the photo. A whistle escaped his lips. “Damn, she’s gorgeous.”
Michael shot him a warning look, one that clearly said, watch it.
O’Sullivan held up a hand in mock surrender, his eyes still on the screen. “Okay, okay, keeping it respectful. But she’s, uh,” he looked at her photo again, “she’s dressed like a human. I mean, she’s wearing a… dress.” He had said dress, but Michael knew what he meant. There was no way that what she was wearing in that photo could be considered a dress, not by any stretch of the imagination. “Never thought I’d see the day.”
“Yeah,” Michael said with a soft sigh, his gaze distant as he remembered the day that the photo had been taken. “She does. She’s adjusted to a lot of human norms—more than anyone could’ve expected. She’s embraced human society wholeheartedly.” He paused, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “And as for her being gorgeous?” He chuckled, shaking his head. “Yeah, she’s as hot as a supernova.”
O’Sullivan let out another low whistle, handing back the datapad. “You’re one lucky guy, you know that?”
Michael nodded, tucking the datapad away with a faint smile. “Believe me, I know.” His expression turned reflective as he shook his head. “I wouldn’t even be here in this mess if it weren’t for her. She stopped me from making a big mistake.” He looked down at his air gauge. “We only have four and a half hours of air left, we better conserve it.”
“Yeah,” O’Sullivan sighed, “you’re right. All we can do is hope and pray that someone got the message.” He looked at the console in front of him, most of it a pile of slag that had been destroyed in the crash, and the red light that indicated that the emergency beacon was transmitting was blinking. “At least we have that,” he pointed at the light.
“Yeah, if the antenna array wasn’t destroyed.”
“You just had to go and be a buzzkill,” O’Sullivan folded his arms across his chest, “didn’t you?”
“I’m a realist.”
O’Sullivan shook his head. “Yeah well, I have to believe that’s it’s working. I have a lady back on the station to ask to marry.”
“Really?” Michael asked. “Who is she?”
“She’s one of the schoolteachers back on the station,” O’Sullivan looked up at the ceiling, wires hanging from it, “she’s great. She’s got the patience of a saint.”
“She’d have to!” Michael exclaimed. “I sure as hell couldn’t put up with a classroom full of little monsters.” He chuckled. “That’s for sure! Keeping tabs on one child is a handful. A whole classroom? No. Thank. You.” He said with emphasis.
“Aww,” O’Sullivan smiled, “they’re not all bad.” He fondly remembered back to when he had visited his girlfriend in her classroom. The kids had swarmed him with a million questions about being in the Space Force, their wide-eyed curiosity both endearing and overwhelming. One little girl had even made him a crayon drawing of a spaceship, which he had framed and put on the wall of his stateroom. “They’ve got their moments,” he admitted with a soft chuckle, “but yeah, I’ll stick to dealing with grown-ups, thanks.”
O’Sullivan looked at Michael, a grin spreading across his face. “She’s this sweet little Japanese woman, but as I learned from my time visiting one of her classes, she can be a bit of a spitfire when she wants to be. Don’t let her size fool you—when one of those kids start acting up, she shuts them down with just a look. I’ve seen drill sergeants with less command over recruits.”
Michael chuckled, shaking his head. “Sounds like she’s got her hands full.”
“She does,” O’Sullivan replied, a note of pride in his voice. “But she loves it. Says it keeps her young. She’s always telling me how much she loves being a teacher and wouldn’t trade it for anything. Even with the chaos, the noise, and the occasional kid who tries to eat paste, she says it’s the best job in the world.”
Michael smiled faintly. “Sounds like she’s found her calling.”
“Yeah,” O’Sullivan said, his expression softening. “She has. And I’ve got to admit, seeing her so passionate about it? It kind of makes you appreciate the little things more.” He glanced around the battered shuttle. “So yeah,” he said, his voice steady but tinged with exhaustion, “I have to have some hope that we’re going to be rescued. Otherwise, what’s the point?”
—
Meanwhile, on the station, Triara entered the CIC, her presence seemingly unnoticed amid the flurry of activity. The room was alive with the hum of voices, screens flickering with incoming data as the crew worked tirelessly to locate Michael’s downed shuttle. Her gaze landed on Richard, seated with an air of command in the center of the controlled chaos. Outwardly, he appeared composed, but Triara knew better. Beneath the veneer of confidence, he was grappling with worry for his friend. Yet, as a seasoned officer of the Space Force, he kept his emotions tightly in check.
“I’m picking up a faint beacon,” Sylaris’s calm voice broke through the din. “Sector 25 by 85 by 76. It’s moving, sir.”
“Relay that information to the search parties,” Richard ordered crisply. He turned, expecting to see Captain Byrne, but instead found himself face-to-face with Triara. “Triara? What are you doing here?”
She met his gaze with determination. “I’m here to find out what’s going on.”
Richard hesitated, glancing around the busy room. “There’s not much to tell,” he admitted. “We know they managed to send out a mayday, and now we’ve picked up an emergency homing beacon. Beyond that, we have no additional details.”
“Do we know if they’re still alive?” Triara’s voice wavered slightly, betraying her worry.
Richard shook his head. “No. Not yet.”
“I want to join the search parties,” she said firmly.
Richard’s expression hardened. “I’m sorry, Triara. You’re too close to this situation. It’s not a good idea.”
“But Richard—” she began, a faint pout on her lips.
“No,” he interrupted, his tone resolute. “You’re much too close to this. I can’t risk it.”
He signaled for an officer nearby. “Ensign Takamura,” he called. The young woman stepped forward with a brisk nod. “Please escort Triara off the command deck.”
Triara felt a gentle yet firm hand on her shoulder. “Richard,” she pleaded, her voice tinged with desperation.
“Triara,” he replied, his tone softening but his resolve unwavering. “Don’t make me turn this into an order. Go back to your stateroom. I’ll update you as soon as we have more information.”
He looked at Ensign Takamura. “Ensure she gets to her stateroom.”
“Yes, Commander,” the ensign replied, guiding Triara toward the exit.
“I don’t need to be led out,” Triara shrugged her shoulders to get Ensign Takamura’s hand off of her, “I know the way off the command deck.”
As they left, Captain Danielle Byrne emerged from her office, her sharp eyes catching sight of Triara being escorted away. “What’s going on with Triara?” she asked, walking over to Richard.
“She’s worried,” Richard replied with a sigh.
“About what?” Danielle pressed.
Richard hesitated, choosing his words carefully. He had no idea if the captain knew about their relationship. “Michael and Triara are, let’s just say… involved, if you catch my meaning.”
Danielle raised an eyebrow but nodded in understanding. She already had a feeling they were, seeing as how she had often seen them together in the Officer’s Lounge.
“Let me guess, she wanted to join the search parties?”
“She did, but I told her no,” Richard confirmed. “However, she’s too close to this and we can’t afford mistakes. I didn’t make it an order, more like a suggestion and had Ensign Takamura escort her off the command deck..”
Danielle’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Good call, Commander. The last thing we need is someone emotional jeopardizing the search and rescue operation.” The captain turned back to her office. “Keep me apprized of the search parties.” With that the captain left the command deck leaving him in charge.
“Well,” he whispered, “the captain had to know at some point.” He shook his head.
Richard’s gaze drifted back to the flurry of activity in the CIC. He looked down at his datapad hoping that there was some new information for not only himself but also for Triara. Unfortunately, there was no new information since the last update ten minutes ago. For now, all he could do was hope that Michael—and everyone else on that shuttle—was still alive.
—
Triara stepped into her stateroom, the door sliding shut behind her with a soft hiss that seemed far too final. The usually serene space felt suffocating now, the walls pressing in as her emotions threatened to overwhelm her. She stood frozen for a moment, her eyes darting around the room as if searching for something to ground her. The room was clean like any good officer’s stateroom should be. It was calm, too calm for the storm raging within her.
Her fingers trembled as she unbuttoned her uniform jacket, letting it fall to the floor. She exhaled shakily, pressing a hand to her chest in a futile attempt to steady the ache building there. Images of Michael flooded her mind—the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled, his quiet strength, the warmth of his presence. Was he hurt? Trapped? Or worse…
“No,” she whispered fiercely to herself, pacing the small room. “I would know. I would know if he were…” Her throat tightened, cutting off the thought before it could fully form.
Triara sank onto the edge of her couch, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. She closed her eyes, reaching out with her telepathic gift, desperate to feel something—anything—that might indicate Michael was still alive. The silence in her mind was deafening, a void that made her stomach churn. She pressed her fingertips to her temples, straining to focus, but the only emotions she could detect were her own: worry, fear, and a deep… gnawing helplessness.
A knock at the door startled her, and she jumped to her feet, wiping at her face though she hadn’t shed a tear. “Come in,” she called, her voice steadier than she felt.
The door slid open to reveal Chelsea, a friend, standing there with a concerned expression. She leaned casually against the doorframe, her usual easygoing demeanor softened by worry.
“What are you doing here?” Triara asked, her voice low but tinged with surprise.
“I could ask you the same thing,” Chelsea replied, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. She glanced around the room, her sharp eyes noting the rumpled uniform tunic on the floor and the tension in Triara’s thoughts. “I thought you’d be up in the CIC raising hell.”
Triara let out a bitter laugh. “I tried. Richard had me escorted out. Apparently, I’m ‘too close to the situation.’” Her fingers clenched into fists, the frustration bubbling up again. “As if sitting here, doing nothing, is any better.”
Chelsea let the door close behind her and crossed the room, sitting down in the chair opposite Triara. “He’s not wrong, you know,” she said carefully. “I mean, Richard can be a bit of an ass about some things, but he’s not wrong. You’d be no good to Michael if you’re out there letting your emotions cloud your judgment.”
Triara’s glare could have melted through the hull. “You think I’d jeopardize a rescue mission? That I’d be that reckless?”
Chelsea held up her hands in mock surrender. “Whoa, easy. I didn’t say that. I’m just saying… you care about him. And sometimes, when we care that much, we don’t always think straight.”
Triara’s shoulders sagged, her anger fizzling as quickly as it had flared. “I just feel so useless,” she admitted, her voice cracking. “Michael’s out there—hurt, or worse—and I’m stuck here, waiting.” She hid her face in her hands, the weight of her emotions finally breaking through the fragile dam she’d tried to hold together. Her voice trembled as she began to sob. “I should’ve told him,” she choked out between ragged breaths.
Chelsea froze, her usual confident demeanor faltering. She knelt in front of Triara, placing her hands gently on her friend’s knees. “Told him what?” she asked softly, her voice careful, almost hesitant.
Triara shook her head, her hands still covering her face. “How much he means to me,” she whispered, her words muffled. “That I—” Her voice caught in her throat, and she pressed her fingers harder against her temples, as if trying to push the emotions back down. “I don’t even know if he knows, Chelsea. What if I never get the chance to tell him?”
Chelsea’s heart twisted at the raw pain in Triara’s voice. She squeezed her knees gently, trying to anchor her. “Hey,” she said, her tone firm but kind. “Michael’s tough. If there’s anyone who can survive whatever’s out there, it’s him. And when he does, you’re going to tell him everything. You hear me?”
Triara slowly lowered her hands, her tear-streaked face filled with a mixture of despair and hope. “But what if—”
“No ‘what ifs,’” Chelsea cut her off, her gaze steady and unyielding. “Not right now. You hold onto the fact that he’s out there, fighting to come back. For you.”
Triara sniffled, wiping at her cheeks. “You really think he’ll make it?”
“I know he will,” Chelsea said with conviction. “That man’s got a fire in him that’s not going out anytime soon. And when he gets back, you’ll have all the time in the universe to tell him everything.”
A weak but genuine smile tugged at Triara’s lips. “You make it sound so easy.”
“It’s not,” Chelsea admitted, standing up and brushing her hands on her pants. “But nothing worth it ever is. Now, why don’t you wash your face and try to get some rest? You’ll need your strength when you receive word that he’s back.”
Triara nodded, drawing a shaky breath as she stood. “Thank you, Chelsea. For being here.”
“Always,” Chelsea said, pulling her into a brief but fierce hug. “Now, no more tears. You’ve got hope to hold onto, and that’s more powerful than you think.”
As the door slid shut behind Chelsea, Triara stood alone in the quiet once more. But this time, the silence felt a little less crushing, and the glimmer of hope she’d felt earlier began to grow, faint but steady. She wiped her face, steeling herself with a deep breath. Hold on, Michael. Just hold on. Just hold on for me.
—
“Damn it,” Michael muttered under his breath, glancing at the oxygen meter on his mask. The blinking indicator told him what he didn’t want to face: 30 minutes left. He exhaled sharply and turned toward O’Sullivan, who sat back in the reclining position in his chair, his eyes closed in what appeared to be sleep.
“O’Sullivan, hey!” Michael said, shaking him firmly by the shoulder. “Wake up.”
O’Sullivan jolted upright, his eyes wide and disoriented. “What’s happening?” He blinked rapidly, looking around the wrecked interior of the shuttle. His gaze fell on the flickering emergency lights and the shattered viewport. His face paled. “Oh, fuck,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. “I was hoping this was some kind of nightmare.”
Michael gave a hollow laugh, the sound devoid of humor. “Nope. No nightmares here. Just cold, hard reality.” He pointed out at the shattered viewport. “That and the cold vastness of space.”
O’Sullivan let out a string of curses under his breath before looking down at his own oxygen gauge. His expression tightened. “How bad is it?” he asked, though his tone suggested he already knew the answer.
“A little over half an hour of air left,” Michael replied, his voice grim. “After that…” He trailed off, not needing to finish the thought.
O’Sullivan swore again, louder this time, slamming his fist against the dead console. “This is bullshit. How the hell did it come to this? I’m supposed to be asking Aiko to marry me, not dying in the cold blackness of space!” He dropped his face onto the dead console in front of him and pounded it again. “Damn it, it’s not fair!”
Michael watched silently as the young Ensign began to sob, his frustration and despair echoing in the cramped cabin.
“I wanted children—I wanted a family, damn it!” O’Sullivan cursed. “I wanted to build a happy life with my wife. For God’s sake,” he pounded the dead control panel again, his voice cracking, “I dragged her out to this Godforsaken place after I graduated from the academy. And now this?”
Michael kept his eyes on O’Sullivan, letting the younger man vent his anguish. There wasn’t much else he could do—no reassurances, no promises of survival. Words felt hollow when every ticking second brought them closer to suffocation.
And yet, as O’Sullivan sobbed against the console, Michael’s thoughts drifted. It wasn’t supposed to be this way. Not for O’Sullivan, and certainly not for him. Aiko deserved her boyfriend, just as much as Triara deserved—no, needed—him to come back to her.
Triara. The thought of her not having him in her life stung more than the dull ache in the back of his neck from how he had bashed his head against the control panel. How would she handle her loss? Zaltaens weren’t as openly emotional as humans were, a cultural trait he’d always attributed to their rigid, matriarchal structure. Women on Zalta carried the weight of societal leadership, leaving little room for vulnerability. When he first met her, Triara had been no exception—composed, almost distant, like she was afraid to let anyone see the cracks beneath her surface.
She had changed in the time he’d known her. No longer the reserved, distant Zaltaen he’d first met, she had blossomed in ways he hadn’t dared to imagine, revealing a warmth and playfulness that he found himself eagerly anticipating every weekend on their dates. Her laughter, once rare, now came so easily.
She’d even mastered the art of flirting, teasing him in ways that left him both flustered and entranced. Sometimes it was the way she slowly crossed her legs, the whisper of nylon against nylon drawing his attention with an almost hypnotic pull. Her choice of skirts hinted just enough to ignite his imagination, never crossing the line of her modesty but always leaving him wanting more. Other times, it was the subtle dip of her voice when she leaned in close, her words laced with a soft, deliberate edge that sent his pulse racing. Her intentions weren’t always overt, but they were unmistakable, leaving him breathless and, if he was honest, thoroughly enchanted with her.
Then there were the gentler gestures, the ones that lingered in his thoughts long after they happened. A casual brush of her fingers against his arm as they strolled together, or the playful way she’d straighten his collar while flashing him that mischievous smile of hers. Her clever wit was another weapon in her arsenal, weaving teasing remarks so effortlessly that he often found himself second-guessing whether she was serious or just relishing the sight of him squirming.
Yet beneath all the teasing and playful allure, there was something genuine and unguarded—a side of her she reserved for him alone. Her flirtation wasn’t just about making him blush; it was her way of letting him in, sharing parts of herself that no one else was privy to—not even Richard, who she had come to see as a brother. With every knowing glance, every laugh that felt like it was meant for him alone, she broke down the walls he once thought impenetrable.
Of course, she found his reactions endlessly amusing, and yet he didn’t mind one bit. He’d even come to enjoy how effortlessly she seemed to hold sway over him. Her charm, paired with her otherworldly beauty, left him feeling as though he were caught in her orbit—a willing captive in a dance he never wanted to end.
And now, here he was, sitting in a dead shuttle with only half an hour of air left. The old Triara might have taken his death in stride, masking her pain with stoicism and Zaltaen propriety. But the Triara he knew now? The one who let herself feel? She would be devastated much like he was when he had lost Mary.
Michael closed his eyes for a moment, picturing her back on the station. She was probably pacing the length of her stateroom or grilling Richard in the CIC, demanding updates every fifteen minutes. He could almost hear her voice, sharp and insistent, because she never took no for an answer from Richard. The thought twisted something deep inside him—guilt, maybe, or a fear he couldn’t quite name.
“I’m sorry, Triara,” he murmured under his breath, the words swallowed by his mask. “I’m sorry I never told you I loved you.”
O’Sullivan lifted his head, his tear-streaked face visible on his face. “What’d you say, sir?”
“Nothing,” Michael replied, his voice steadier than he felt. “Just… thinking.”
He thought about how unfair it all was. He thought about how much he still wanted to live. For Jessie. For Triara. For himself.
“How old are you?” Michael asked, leaning back against his seat, his voice full of exhaustion.
“Twenty-four.”
“God,” Michael groaned, slumping forward in his chair, his hands on his knees. “You’re still just a kid.”
“Yeah,” O’Sullivan sighed, a bitter edge creeping into his tone. “This was my first duty assignment out of the academy.” He pounded the dead control panel in front of him, the sound dull in the lifeless cockpit. “So much for my illustrious Space Force career.”
Michael let out a dry chuckle, shaking his head. “Kid,” he said, pointing a finger at himself, “there’s nothing illustrious about being in the Space Force. It’s just another job.”
“Yeah, well,” O’Sullivan sighed, his shoulders sagging, “I was trying to make it a career. You know, move up the ranks, make something of myself, provide for my wife. That kind of thing.” He stared at the darkened console, his fingers absently tracing a crack in its surface. “Guess I’m not off to a great start.”
“Yeah,” Michael sighed, the weight of his thoughts settling heavily on his shoulders. “Me too. I had plans to eventually marry Triara and have a child with her so my daughter from my first marriage wouldn’t have to grow up alone.”
“First marriage?” O’Sullivan asked, his brow furrowing as he looked over at Michael. The question carried a mixture of curiosity and hesitation, as if he wasn’t sure he wanted to tread into such personal territory.
Michael nodded, a distant look in his eyes. “Yeah. Her name was Mary. She… she died during the war.” He paused, swallowing hard as the memories threatened to resurface. “Our daughter, Jessie, was just three years old when her mother died. She died when her ship went up.”
O’Sullivan’s face softened. “Damn, I’m sorry to hear that, sir. That can’t have been easy.”
“It wasn’t,” Michael admitted, his voice low, tinged with the weight of old wounds. “I had to give my daughter to my sister, Heather. I wasn’t anywhere near a place in my life where I could raise her, take care of her.” He paused, his gaze drifting to some unseen point in the distance. “And then… then I met Triara.”
A faint smile flickered across his face, a small spark of warmth in the grim surroundings. “She brought something back into my life I thought I’d lost forever. Hope.” He took a deep breath, as if the very act of admitting it gave him strength. “For the first time in years, I feel like I can take care of my daughter again.”
O’Sullivan leaned back—his expression thoughtful. “Sounds like she’s someone special.”
“She is,” Michael said quietly. “That’s why I can’t give up. Not now. Not when I have so much to fight for.”
Just as he spoke, a heavy thud reverberated through the shuttle, followed by the unmistakable feeling of metal screeching and twisting. The interior of the shuttle shuddered violently, sending a wave of dread through both men.
“What the hell was that?” O’Sullivan’s voice was barely above a whisper, his eyes wide, scanning the walls as if trying to identify the source of the vibrations. His pulse quickened, and his hand instinctively reached for the sidearm strapped to his leg, though he knew it was useless in their current situation.
Michael stood motionless, his heart racing, trying to piece together the bizarre turn of events. Then, as the noise continued, a faint whirring vibration cut through the chaos, growing more intense by the second. He turned just in time to see it—a sliver of silver, a flash of sharp metal—emerging from the edge of the shuttle’s hull.
O’Sullivan’s eyes widened. “What the hell is that?” His voice was tight with disbelief.
The tip of a saw blade emerged slowly from the side of the shuttle, cutting through the metal like it was paper. The shuttle shook even more violently as the blade worked its way deeper into the hull.
Michael’s mind raced, a dozen thoughts scrambling for clarity. He wanted to shout, to move, to do something—but all he could do was watch in stunned silence. The last thing he’d expected was a rescue operation, especially not with the limited resources available to them.
But someone, somewhere, was cutting their way in.
“That’s—” Michael started, his voice hoarse. He couldn’t finish the sentence, couldn’t wrap his mind around what was happening. “That’s a cutter,” he muttered, as the blade sawed through the last layer of metal, the screech of the process rising in pitch.
A few moments later, the cutting stopped, and there was an eerie silence. Michael and O’Sullivan exchanged glances, both of them on edge, still unsure if this was a friend or foe. The saw blade had made its mark, but who was on the other side?
Before they could react, a voice called through the breach. “Is anyone alive in there?”
“Yeah!” O’Sullivan shouted, his voice echoing through the shuttle. “We’re in here!”
The seconds stretched on as Michael and O’Sullivan held their breath, their eyes locked on the breach in the hull, waiting for whatever came next. Then, through the widening gap, a group of men in space suits appeared, moving with purposeful steps. The metallic clang of their boots on the shuttle’s floor was a strange comfort amidst the chaos.
“We’re here to save you,” one of the men called, his voice muffled slightly by the helmet but still clear.
Michael’s heart skipped a beat. Relief hit him like a wave, but he didn’t let himself show it too much—he had been through enough false hopes to know better than to take anything for granted. Still, the sight of these rescuers, standing solid and sure in their heavy suits, felt like a lifeline he hadn’t dared to believe in.
“Thank God,” Michael sighed, his breath shaky. His hands gripped the edge of the seat to steady himself, and for the first time in what felt like hours, he allowed himself a moment to breathe. “I thought we were done for.”
O’Sullivan, whose shoulders had been tense with anxiety, let out a low chuckle. “Guess it’s not our time yet.” He looked at the rescuers, his face lighting up with gratitude. “You guys have no idea how much we thought we all were going to die.”
One of the men stepped forward, extending his hand in a gesture of reassurance. “We’re not out of the woods yet. We need to move fast, but we’ve got you.”
Michael nodded, still trying to process the overwhelming relief. “How’d you find us?” he asked, his mind racing. He hadn’t expected a rescue, especially not so soon.
“We picked up your distress beacon,” the man replied, glancing back toward the breach. “Once we locked on, it was just a matter of getting through that damn hull.” He paused, then added with a grin, “Good thing we brought the heavy cutters.”
O’Sullivan snorted, his grin matching the man’s. “You’re damn right. You just saved our asses.”
“Let’s not waste time,” another rescuer said, as he helped Michael and O’Sullivan get up from their seats. “We’ve got a shuttle waiting to take you back to the station. You’ve been through hell.”
As the rescuers guided them out of the damaged shuttle, Michael stole one last look back at the wreckage. The reality of their narrow escape settled in, and with it came the realization that their survival was no longer a question. They had made it against the odds.
—
“Richard?” Triara rubbed her eyes, her voice tinged with grogginess as she opened the door. “What’s going on?”
Richard’s eyes widened as he took in her disheveled appearance—her usually immaculate hair now a tumble of loose waves, her shirt slightly rumpled. “Damn Triara, you look like a hot mess.”
Triara arched an elegant brow, folding her arms with mock indignation. “Why, thank you, Richard. That’s exactly what every woman dreams of hearing.” She chuckled.
Richard had to admit that she was learning to be more human by the day. Her mannerisms, her sense of humor, her ease with the nuances of everyday life among humans—Triara had come a long way since they had first met.
Richard chuckled, leaning casually against the doorframe. “We’ve got news on Michael’s downed shuttle.”
“Oh,” she looked down at the floor, “let me go get cleaned up and I’ll be out.”
Richard’s casual demeanor shifted as he noticed her red-rimmed eyes and the unmistakable streaks on her cheeks. He straightened up, his teasing tone replaced with quiet concern. “Triara… have you been crying?”
She hesitated, her fingers brushing a stray lock of blue hair behind her ear. “It’s nothing,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “I just… I needed a moment, that’s all.”
“Doesn’t look like nothing to me,” Richard said softly, stepping inside. He kept his tone light but gentle, careful not to push too hard. “Look, I get it. You were worried about him. Hell, we all were. But we’ve got good news, okay? That’s why I’m here.”
Triara blinked, her gaze lifting to meet his. “Good news, I hope?”
He nodded, offering a small smile. “Yeah. So, why don’t you take a minute, freshen up, and I’ll fill you in when you’re ready. No rush.”
She hesitated for a moment longer before nodding. “Thanks, Richard. I’ll be right out.”
As she disappeared into her stateroom, Richard stayed by the door, his mind lingering on the vulnerable side of her he rarely saw. He couldn’t blame her for being on edge—Michael meant a lot to her, maybe more than she was willing to admit.
Moments later, Triara emerged from her stateroom, her face freshly washed and her hair hastily pulled back into a neat ponytail. Though she carried herself with her usual composure, Richard could still see the faint shadow of worry lingering in her eyes.
“When can I see him?” she asked, her voice steady but filled with quiet urgency.
Richard gave her a reassuring smile, though his voice carried a hint of caution. “Soon. The doctors are checking him out; he’s in rough shape.”
Triara’s breath hitched, and she pressed her fingers to her lips, trying to steady herself. “How rough?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. It was obvious that she was worried about him.
“Bumps, bruises, scrapes, a nasty gash on the back of his head, along with signs of a mild concussion,” Richard continued, his tone softened by the weight of the news. “But nothing life-threatening. He’ll just need some time to heal.”
Triara closed her eyes for a moment, a deep breath escaping her lips as she tried to absorb the relief that came with the knowledge he was alive. But the image of him hurt, vulnerable, was hard to shake. He had always been able to hide his pain so well, masking it with his strength, his stubborn resilience—much like herself.
“I’ve already put him in for emergency medical leave.”
“When can I see him?” she asked again, her voice quiet but firm, as though needing to make sure the moment wouldn’t slip away.
“Soon,” Richard reassured her again, his gaze softening. “Once the scans are done and they’re sure he’s good to go. I know you want to be by his side, Triara, and you will be. Just a little bit longer.”
—
Standing outside the medical bay, Triara paced nervously, her steps echoing in the otherwise quiet corridor. The sounds of the medical team inside—murmured voices, the hum of equipment and scanners—did little to calm her fraying nerves. She kept her eyes trained on the door, as if willing it to open, to give her some sign that Michael was all right, that he was going to make it through this. She couldn’t shake the image of him, battered and unconscious, from her mind. She hated the feeling of helplessness, the uncertainty that hung thick in the air.
She turned about when a Japanese woman of small stature came walking into the waiting room where she was pacing about. It was clear to her that she was worried about something, just as worried as she was.
“Excuse me?” Triara asked. “Who are you?”
“Uh,” Triara watched as the small Japanese woman wiped at her eyes, “who are you?”
“I’m Triara.”
“Oh.” Triara watched as the Japanese woman sat down. “I’m Aiko.” She sniffled. “Why are you here?”
“I’m waiting for someone who was involved in the shuttle accident.”
“You—” Aiko stuttered. “You are?”
“Yeah,” Triara sat down in one of the chairs next to Aiko, “I have a—” She paused for a moment and thought. Is a loved one an appropriate way of describing Michael? I mean, I definitely do have feelings for him, and I know that he does for me. “I have a loved one that I’m waiting for. His name is Michael.”
“Michael.” Aiko spoke his name. “My Finnian speaks very highly of Michael, though I’ve never heard Finnian mention you.” Triara wondered why. “Then again, Finnian doesn’t talk much about work. He likes to keep work and his… personal life separate. He says that he doesn’t want to scare or worry me about his work.”
“That’s understandable,” Triara nodded, “for Michael and me, it’s different; we’re in the same line of work.”
Just then the door opened into the inner area of the medical bay, someone looking like a Space Force officer came out.
“Aiko?” the officer called, and the Japanese woman perked up. “You may go in and see Finnian now.”
Triara watched as Aiko hurried into the room before turning her attention back to the officer. “What about me?” she asked, her voice laced with concern.
“Are you Triara?” the officer asked, her tone soft but professional.
“Yes,” Triara replied nervously, fidgeting slightly. “I am. What’s wrong? What’s going on?”
“Oh, nothing’s wrong, honey,” the doctor chimed in as she stepped forward and gently placed a hand on Triara’s shoulder. “There’s just some things I need to explain to you.”
“You’re scaring me,” Triara said, her voice trembling.
The doctor gave her a reassuring smile, though her tone remained serious. “I’m just trying to prepare you for what you’re going to have to deal with. We recommended that Michael have a nurse visit him during the day to keep tabs on his recovery, but he insisted he has you.”
Triara’s brows furrowed, worry etching deeper into her expression. “Okay…” she said cautiously. “What do I need to do?”
“Due to the nature of his injuries, he’s going to need some help, a lot of help,” the doctor began. “His knee was injured, making it difficult for him to walk, so he’ll need support for longer distances. He’s got two broken ribs along with a sprained wrist that we’ve immobilized with a brace. The ribs will need time to heal, so he’ll have to be careful not to strain himself or do anything too strenuous.”
Triara nodded quickly. “I can do that.”
“He also has a nasty gash on the back of his head. While it’s healing, it’s absolutely vital to keep it clean while the nanomachines work to help the area heal. You’ll need to handle that for him.”
Another nod. “I’ll make sure of it.”
“We’ll provide a topical antibiotic cream to prevent infection,” the doctor continued, her tone steady. “And you’ll need to watch for signs of complications from his concussion—things like nausea, dizziness, or confusion. We need to keep an eye on that.”
Triara listened intently, her face a mixture of worry and determination to help him. The doctor paused, tilting her head slightly as she observed the Triara’s reaction. The way Triara absorbed every word, how her hands clenched tightly as if holding herself steady, and the flash of pain in her eyes at the mention of Michael’s injuries—it all painted a vivid picture.
After a moment of silence, the doctor’s expression softened further. “You care about him a great deal, don’t you?” she asked quietly.
Triara blinked, momentarily startled by the question. “Of course I do,” she said without hesitation. “He’s… he’s important to me.”
The doctor studied her, a knowing smile tugging at her lips. “It’s more than that, isn’t it?” she pressed gently. “Do you love him?”
Triara’s breath caught, her cheeks flushing faintly as she glanced down at the floor. “I… I don’t know,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. “Maybe. Yes. I think so.”
The doctor gave her shoulder a comforting squeeze. “Well, if that’s the case, he’s lucky to have you looking out for him,” she said warmly. “Love has a way of giving us the strength to handle anything. And from what I’ve seen, you’ll do just fine. Michael’s mentioned you, you know,” she added with a soft smile. “He was the one who suggested you’d be the best person to take care of him. He even insisted that you take care of him. From the way he talks about you, it’s clear there’s something special between you two.”
Triara felt her cheeks flush, a mixture of pride and vulnerability swelling within her. “He… he really said that?” she asked softly, her voice betraying the emotions she struggled to keep in check. “He really said that I’d be the best person to take care of him? He even insisted that I take care of him?”
The doctor nodded. “Oh, yes. Even through the haze of pain and exhaustion, you were the one he kept bringing up. It’s obvious you mean a lot to him.”
Triara bit her lip, her heart pounding in her chest. “I just want to be there for him,” she murmured, her words heavy with sincerity.
“And from what I can tell,” the doctor said gently, “he knows that—and he’s going to need you more than ever right now.”
“I do,” Triara sighed, her voice soft but resolute. “I need him too.”
The doctor offered a gentle smile, one that spoke of understanding. “Alright,” she said, pushing the door open with a quiet click. “I’ll lead you to him.”
Triara hesitated for a moment, steadying herself with a deep breath. As the door swung open, the sterile light of the medical bay spilled into the corridor, and she stepped forward, her heart pounding with equal parts relief and trepidation.
As she turned the corner, her breath caught in her throat. There he was—Michael—propped up on the medical bed, bandages visible on his head and a brace his wrist, his usually strong demeanor softened by exhaustion and injury. The sight of him, battered but alive, was enough to send a rush of relief and sorrow coursing through her.
“Triara?” His voice, though strained and quieter than she was used to, was unmistakably his. Hearing it brought a wave of emotion crashing over her, and for a moment, all she could do was stand there, taking him in.
Michael tried to push himself upright from his hospital bed, but as soon as he attempted to put weight on his left knee, he wavered and nearly collapsed. Before he could brace himself, Triara was already there, rushing to his side.
Without thinking, she wrapped her arms around him, pulling him into an embrace so tight it seemed like she was trying to hold him together. He winced in pain, but he dared not tell her that she was hurting him. Her face pressed into his shoulder, and the floodgates opened. She began to openly sob as the fear she had of losing him without being able to tell him what he meant to her overwhelmed her.
Michael, his body sore and still shaky, instinctively wrapped his arms around her, gently holding her as she cried against him. He could feel her trembling, and his heart broke for her, for the weight of everything she had been carrying the last few hours. Not knowing if he was alive or not.
He didn’t speak at first. Words felt too small, too inadequate for a moment like this. Instead, he held her close, his arms wrapping around her with quiet strength. His hand moved gently through her hair, his touch steady and soothing as he whispered against her temple, “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”
Her shoulders trembled, and he hushed her softly, his voice low and tender. “Shh… please don’t cry. I’m here. I’ve got you.”
Triara clung to him, unable to stop the tears that flowed. Her hands gripped his shirt tightly, her sobs slowing as she tried to calm herself. She finally pulled back just enough to look at him, her eyes red and puffy, her breath shaky.
“Please,” she whispered, voice cracking, “don’t ever do that to me again. I can’t… I can’t lose you.”
Michael cupped her face gently, his thumb brushing away the tear that had slipped down her cheek. Her eyes met his, and in them, he saw raw fear—fear of losing him, fear of vulnerability—and the depth of her feelings for him. It struck him harder than any of the pain from his injuries, cutting through the ache in his body with a force he hadn’t expected. “I won’t,” he promised quietly. “I’m not going anywhere. You’re stuck with me.”
A faint smile tugged at the corners of Triara’s lips, her breath catching in her throat as she leaned into his touch. For the first time since the accident, she felt like she could finally breathe again.
Meanwhile, the doctor stood quietly at the door, watching the scene unfold. She hadn’t meant to eavesdrop, but she couldn’t help herself. She had seen countless patients and had witnessed many forms of healing, both physical and emotional, but she had to admit that there was something uniquely powerful about the connection they shared despite being from two different species—from two very different worlds.
The way Triara held Michael, her fear giving way to a deep, almost desperate tenderness, spoke volumes. The doctor could see it—the way Michael’s words seemed to ground her, even comfort her. She had treated many Zaltaens in her day but none of them had shown that kind of emotion for someone else. They were always so cold, distant—yet Triara was anything but that. It was obvious to her that Triara loved Michael very much.
The doctor smiled to herself, feeling a quiet satisfaction. “They’ll be alright,” she murmured to herself, before turning back to the charts she had been reviewing. His road to recovery wasn’t anywhere close to being done, but it seemed the most important part of the healing process had already begun.
“Honey,” he pushed himself up onto the hospital bed again, wincing slightly as he shifted, “I need to tell you something.”
Triara, sensing the seriousness of what he wanted to tell her in his tone, sat down beside him, her eyes still red and puffy from crying but alert, her hand instinctively reaching for his.
She waited, her gaze steady on him, trying to mask the anxiety that was beginning to rise within her chest. “What is it?” she asked quietly, her voice gentle, though her mind raced.
Michael shifted slightly, still looking a little worn but determined. “I’ve been thinking a lot about everything that happened… and about us.” He looked down at her hand that was holding his. “It’s said that sometimes having a brush with death can change someone, put things into perspective, make you think about the important things in life. That’s why I… I want to tell you what I feel for you.”
Triara simply nodded, her heart pounding in her chest, sensing where he was going but afraid to assume too much. “What are you trying to say, Michael?”
He exhaled slowly, his hand tightening around hers. “I think I’ve been fooling myself for a while, but every time I look at you, every time you’re there, every time I spend time with you, I realize… just how much I need you. How much I care about you.” He paused, swallowing hard, as if the words themselves were a challenge to say out loud. “I love you, Triara and to tell you the truth, I’ve loved you for some time now.”
Triara’s breath caught in her throat. For a moment, she couldn’t find the words to say. He had said it; he loved her. It felt surreal, like she had waited for this moment for so long, yet now that it had come, she couldn’t quite believe it at first. Yet, the look on his face said everything.
Her hand gently cupped his face, her thumb brushing over his cheek as she whispered, “I love you too, Michael—I can’t do this without you.”
Michael’s eyes softened, a quiet relief flooding his features as if a weight he hadn’t even known he was carrying had finally been lifted. He leaned into her touch, his forehead resting gently against hers.
“I didn’t want to make this harder for you,” he murmured, his voice hoarse, the vulnerability in it making Triara’s chest tighten. “I didn’t want to drag you into my mess of a life, but…” He smiled faintly, his hand still holding hers as he squeezed it gently. “I was wrong. I need you more than I can even hope to tell you.”
Triara smiled as she heard the words of his confession. She brushed her thumb over his knuckles as she telepathically connected with him, feeling the thoughts and feelings that he had for her as if they were her own. But then she sensed pain, the kind of pain that came from burying emotions, from trying to cope alone.
She let go of his hand, carefully breaking the telepathic connection. She gently brushed her fingers through his hair, careful to avoid the bandage on his head. “You don’t have to go through anything alone anymore, Michael,” she whispered. “Not when I’m here.” She looked back down at his hand and took a hold of it. “We’re in this together now.”
He closed his eyes, his breath shaky as he took in the weight of her words. “I don’t deserve you, Triara,” he said softly, almost to himself.
“You’re wrong,” she replied, her voice strong, steady. “You’ve always deserved me.”
The silence that followed was comforting, like a quiet agreement between them, a promise to each other to always be by each other’s side no matter what life threw at them. Michael shifted slightly, pulling her closer, and for a long moment, they simply held each other.
“I’m not going anywhere,” she whispered against his skin, her voice laced with quiet determination. “We’ll get through this. I’ll take care of you.” She hopped off the hospital bed and held her arms out to help him down. “So come on,” she chuckled, “let’s blow this popsicle stand.”
Michael laughed but immediately regretted it. “Please,” he clutched his chest, “don’t make me laugh. It’s too painful.”
“I’ll try to remember that,” she said with a sly grin.
Triara looked up to see the doctor that she had been talking to moments ago.
“Here you go, Triara.” The doctor handed her a datapad. “Follow the instructions on the datapad. If you have any questions, don’t hesitate to call us—we’ll walk you through anything you’re unsure about. And as for your orders,” she added with a smile, “I’ve already sent all the necessary information to your commanding officer. You’ll be on emergency medical leave to take care of Michael.”
“Really?” Michael raised an eyebrow, his tone caught between surprise and amusement. “You can do that?”
“I’m a doctor,” she replied with a grin. “That’s one of the perks—everyone listens to me. Not even a captain or an admiral can overrule a medical order. Go on,” she gestured toward the datapad in Triara’s hands, “your orders are spelled out clearly.”
Triara glanced down at the datapad, her eyes scanning the text. It was simple, direct, and left no room for misinterpretation: Your official orders for the next two weeks are to take care of Michael.
Straightening her posture, she held her head high. “Well then, I’ll follow your orders to the best of my ability.” Her voice carried a note of playful formality, but her determination was evident.
Michael couldn’t help but chuckle at her theatrics, though the laugh quickly turned into a grimace as pain flared through his chest. “God,” he winced, clutching his ribs, “that… hurt.”
“Yeah,” the doctor interjected, pointing at him with a no-nonsense expression. “You might want to hold off on laughing for at least a week, until the nanomachines have had time to knit your rib back together.”
Triara glanced at him, a mix of concern and affection in her gaze. “Come on,” she said softly, her hand gently brushing his arm. “Let’s get out of here. I think we’ve overstayed our welcome.”
Michael draped his arm around Triara’s shoulders, leaning into her for support as they began their slow walk out of the medical bay. He shifted his weight carefully, taking the strain off his injured left knee, which still throbbed from the shuttle crash. Triara adjusted to his weight instinctively, her arm wrapping securely around his waist to steady him.
“Lean on me,” she said softly, her voice steady despite the ache in her chest at seeing him in pain.
Michael gave her a faint smile, the corners of his lips barely lifting. “I think I’m already doing that,” he murmured, his tone wry but tinged with gratitude.
Behind them, the doctor shook her head with a knowing smile. “Good luck, both of you,” she called after them. “And remember—if you need anything, don’t hesitate to reach out.”
As they walked out of the medical bay, they passed by another bed. A stark white sheet was draped over it, outlining the unmistakable shape of a human body beneath. Triara slowed her steps, her gaze fixed on the still form.
“Who’s that?” she asked softly, her voice barely above a whisper.
Michael followed her gaze and sighed, his expression darkening. “My flight engineer,” he said, his tone heavy with grief. He looked down at the floor, his shoulders sagging under the weight of the memory. “He didn’t make it back alive. His skull was…” Michael hesitated, swallowing hard before continuing. “It was bashed in during the crash. The poor bastard probably didn’t even know what hit him. One moment he was in that shuttle, and the next…” He trailed off, his voice breaking slightly. “He was probably staring at the pearly gates of Heaven.”
She reached out and gently squeezed his arm. “I’m so sorry, Michael.”
“I’m sorry too,” he murmured, shaking his head as grief came over him. “He has a family here on the station. A wife and two little kids… I can’t imagine how they’re taking his death.”
Her heart ached at the thought. She could almost see the faces of the family Michael described—shattered expressions, waiting for news they could never prepare for. “Do they know yet?”
He exhaled heavily. “They were notified as soon as we were brought back. I just…” He paused, his voice faltering. “I keep thinking about the last conversation we had right before we had taken off. It was about something stupid, some maintenance report. He was joking about how he’d finally get a day off after the run.”
He sighed, his shoulders slumping under the weight of the memory. “I can’t help but think about how close I was to dying on that shuttle.”
She stopped walking, gently pulling him to a halt. “But you didn’t,” she said, her voice firm but trembling with emotion. “You’re here, Michael. You survived. You came back to me.”
She glanced down at the floor, her hands tightening slightly where she held onto him for support. Her voice dropped, quieter, almost as though she were afraid to admit the depth of her feelings. “I don’t know what I’d have done if I lost you.”
He looked at her, his eyes softening despite the grief etched into his features. He reached out, his hand brushing her cheek gently, coaxing her gaze back to his. “Triara…” he began, his voice low and heavy with emotion. “You’re the reason I held onto hope, the reason I believed I’d make it back alive. I had to make it back alive—for you. If it weren’t for you…” He hesitated, his voice faltering. “I don’t know if I could’ve fought off the despair that I felt as I stared out into the blackness of space.”
Her breath hitched, and for a moment, they simply stood there, the noise of the medical bay fading into the background as the weight of everything unspoken passed between them. Then, with a steadying breath, Triara nodded and gently squeezed his arm.
“Let’s get you home,” she said softly, the determination in her voice stronger now. “You need to rest. And I need to make sure that you stay in one piece.”
He chuckled faintly, trying not to disturb his ribs; the sound of her voice was weak but genuine. “I’ll try not to give you too much trouble.”
“Good,” she replied, her lips quirking into a small, fleeting smile. “Because I’m not letting you out of my sight even for one second.”
—
As they walked down the hallway toward their staterooms, Triara’s mind turned to practical concerns. How would they handle their living arrangements while she cared for him? Which stateroom would they use? Hers was tidy and modest, but his might be better suited for someone recovering from an injury since they’d have ready access to all his personal things which she could go back and forth to get her own things. Maybe it would make sense to combine their spaces temporarily.
She had to admit that the thought of sharing a living space with Michael sent an unexpected thrill through her since she had wanted to spend more time with him, but she quickly tempered it with reality. This wouldn’t be some kind of pleasure cruise; she had a responsibility to ensure he healed properly. Whatever arrangements they made, they had to be practical and focused on his recovery.
She glanced at him, leaning on her for support, his steps uneven but determined. “Michael,” she ventured cautiously, “have you thought about where you’ll stay while you’re recovering? I mean… would you be more comfortable in your stateroom or mine?”
He stopped walking for a moment, the thought sinking in. He would be spending far more time with her than ever before. The realization of how dependent he’d be on her settled heavily on his mind. She’d be helping him with even the most mundane tasks—getting undressed, getting dressed, preparing meals, and perhaps even assisting him to the bathroom. The intimacy of it all, though entirely nonsexual, made his face flush. It wasn’t something he was accustomed to, and the vulnerability it implied left him feeling both embarrassed and strangely comforted by the thought that it was her and not anyone else, not some random nurse. The fact that it was Triara, someone he trusted and cared for deeply, made it bearable, even if the situation was far from ideal.
“I think staying at my place would be preferable since… you know, my stuff will be there,” he said, his voice tinged with a bit of awkwardness.
“I figured as much,” Triara replied, glancing over at him with a small smile that was both understanding and reassuring. “It’ll make things easier for you. Besides, it’s not like I mind.”
“You don’t mind staying at my place?” he asked, his voice soft with a mixture of uncertainty and gratitude.
Triara gave him a reassuring smile. “Not at all,” she replied, her voice steady. “It’ll be easier for you to rest there since all of your stuff is there.”
“A practical answer.”
Triara chuckled softly, her eyes meeting his with a warmth that lingered. “I try to be practical,” she said, her smile deepening. “But it also just makes sense. You’ll have everything you need in one place, all your personal stuff, and I’ll be there to help you.”
Michael gave her a faint grin, appreciating her calm, sensible approach despite the emotional weight of the situation. “I guess you’re right,” he murmured, his gaze softening. “You’ve got this all figured out, don’t you?”
“I wouldn’t say that I have it all figured out quite yet, but we’ll work on it.”
He met her gaze, a flicker of something deeper passing through his eyes, something unspoken yet understood between them. “Thanks, Triara. I really mean it. I’m happy that it’s you that’s going to be taking care of me instead of some random nurse.”
Triara offered him a gentle smile. “You don’t have to thank me,” she said, her tone steady. “It’s what I want to do. You mean more to me than anything, Michael. I wouldn’t want it any other way.”
Michael’s gaze softened, a quiet moment of understanding passing between them. He gave a small nod, his lips curving into a faint smile. “I guess we’re in this together, huh?”
“Always,” she replied with quiet confidence.
As they walked down the hallway, Triara’s mind wandered to the customs of her people—particularly the one where a Zaltaen woman had the right to claim a mate. While it was true that they had finally admitted to each other that they loved each other, she still worried about how Michael would react. She pushed the thought aside, unwilling to let it cloud the moment as they reached his stateroom.
“We’re here,” she said, glancing at his door. “Do you have your CAC?”
“Yeah,” Michael replied, reaching into his pocket. He pulled out the card and waved it in front of the reader, causing the door to slide open with a soft hiss.
As the door slid open, Triara followed Michael inside, the familiar warmth of his stateroom enveloping her. The space was simple but comfortable much like her own space, with a few personal items scattered about giving it a lived-in feel. It was exactly like her place, except it was like it was in a mirror. Instead of his bedroom being on the right side, it was on the left side of the stateroom.
“Alright,” they walked the rest of the way into his room and came to his couch. “Let me help you sit down.” She watched as he took his arm from around his neck and gave her his hand as she slowly lowered him down while watching him wince in pain.
“It’s just my knee, that’s all,” Michael said, rubbing it gingerly with a wince. “I banged it up pretty good. See?”
He rolled up his pant leg, revealing a large, dark bruise.
“Great Maker,” Triara whispered, her voice tinged with concern.
“Yeah,” he said, rolling the fabric back down. “The doc said the swelling should go down in a few days, and I’ll be able to put weight on it again. But until then,” he added, flexing his knee carefully, “I have to keep moving it. I can’t baby it.” He winced as the motion sent a fresh wave of pain through him. “No pain, no gain, right?”
“I suppose,” she said, her tone cautious as her eyes flicked back to his knee. “But are you sure you should start doing that right away? It looks pretty bad.”
He gave her a small, reassuring smile, though it was clear he was still in pain. “The doctor insisted. Said if I don’t, it could stiffen up or heal wrong. I just need to take it slow and not overdo it.”
She folded her arms, a skeptical look crossing her face. “Taking it slow isn’t exactly your strong suit, Michael. From the moment I met you, you’ve been the kind of person who throws himself into everything full force. What was it you told me once?” She rolled her eyes. “Something about working to distract yourself from the pain of real life?”
He looked up at her, rubbing his knee with a rueful smile. “Guilty as charged. I guess this is my chance to finally learn how to slow down.”
“Exactly,” she said, planting her hands firmly on her hips as she stood in front of him. “And I’m going to make sure we follow the doctor’s orders,” she added, holding up the datapad and tapping it for emphasis, “to the letter. No shortcuts, no excuses, no pushing yourself too far too fast.”
He raised an eyebrow, amusement flickering in his eyes despite the discomfort he was clearly in. “You’re really leaning into this caretaker role, aren’t you?”
She smirked, her tone playfully stern. “You bet I am. Someone’s got to keep you in line.” Her expression softened then, the playful edge giving way to something gentler. “Besides,” she added, her voice quieter, “I want you to get better.” She paused, her gaze steady as a small smile tugged at her lips. “I need you.” He opened his mouth to respond, but she spoke again, her voice carrying an unexpected vulnerability. “I need you more than I ever thought.”
“Yeah,” he looked up at her, “I need you too honey.”
She sat down next to him, her voice low and firm as she took ahold of his hands. “Don’t scare me like that again, I was a wreck when I found out something happened to you.”
“Trust me,” he scoffed lightly, though his tone carried a trace of weariness. “I never planned on any of this, and I definitely didn’t plan on getting banged up like this.” He looked down, his fingers tracing his banged up knee. “God, I hate being so helpless.”
She gently brushed her thumb across his knuckles. “You’re not helpless, Michael,” she said softly. “You’re hurt, that’s different. Everyone needs help sometimes.”
He glanced at her, his expression a mix of frustration and vulnerability. “I just… I hate being a burden. I hate needing someone to do things I should be able to do myself.” He looked about the room. “I won’t even be able to cook for myself let alone get dressed on my own.”
She gave his hand a light squeeze, trying to reassure him. “You’re not a burden, Michael. You’d do the same for me if the roles were reversed, wouldn’t you?” she asked, hoping that he would think the same way.
“Of course!” he exclaimed without hesitation. “I’d be there in a heartbeat, and you know it.”
“Then let me do this for you,” she said, her voice steady and kind. “It’s what we do for the people we care about, the people we love. Right?”
Her words hung in the air, and he froze, his gaze meeting hers. The sincerity in her eyes was unmistakable, cutting through any doubts he’d harbored. He had wondered if her confession of her love back in the Medical Bay had been born out of the heat of the moment, a fleeting response to the intensity of the situation. But now, with just one look, he knew the truth—she meant every word.
“I…” he started, then stopped, searching for the right words. Finally, he let out a soft breath and nodded. “Okay,” he said quietly. “Thank you, Triara. For everything.”
She smiled, a warmth spreading across her face. “Always.”
“You know,” he said, his voice soft as a faint smile tugged at his lips, the kind that spoke of bittersweet memories. “You remind me a lot of Mary… she always had a knack for saying the right thing, for lifting my spirits in times like this.” His hand reached out almost instinctively, resting on her knee in a gesture of quiet, unspoken affection.
Her chest tightened at the mention of his late wife, a pang of sadness mingling with an odd sense of honor. Yet, she kept her expression calm, her gaze steady as if to say she understood without words. “She must have been an incredible woman,” she said softly, her tone wrapped in kindness.
Michael nodded, his eyes drifting as though he could still see Mary in his mind’s eye. “She was,” he said quietly. Then his gaze returned to Triara, and the sadness softened. “But you… you’re pretty incredible too, you know? I mean, here you are, putting up with me, taking care of me without a second thought. That takes a special kind of person.”
Triara’s lips curved into a gentle smile, her gaze steady as she met his. “You don’t have to thank me for any of this,” she said softly. “When you care about someone, you don’t hesitate—you do what needs to be done. You don’t ask questions, you just do it. It’s not unlike what any of my people would do for their mates back on Zalta.”
Michael raised an eyebrow at her words, curiosity flickering in his tired eyes. “Mates? Is that like what I would call a wife… or something more serious?” He asked.
Though he had been dating Triara for some time, he often felt like he had only begun to scratch the surface of truly understanding her. She was like a vast, uncharted star system, and each conversation revealed something of her and her people. And now, here he was, confronted with yet another piece of her culture that he didn’t fully grasp. Yet, he wanted to understand—needed to understand—because if it mattered to her, it mattered to him.
Zaltaen culture was so vastly different from his own, not just in their way of thinking but in the deeply ingrained moral framework they lived by. When compared to humans, it contrasted so starkly with humanity’s casual dismissal of modesty, to the unwavering code of ethics that seemed to guide her every decision. To the Zaltaens, morality wasn’t fluid or subjective; it was a foundation, a constant, something humanity had all but discarded out the airlock in its rush to embrace freedom and individuality. It wasn’t that humans lacked morality altogether, but their collective values often seemed scattered, inconsistent, and, at times, self-serving.
It was then that he reflected on his own life, realizing he had always held himself to a higher standard than many of his peers. It was part of what had made his marriage to Mary so strong. While friends and colleagues cycled through relationships, casual or otherwise, he and Mary had built something lasting, something rooted in mutual respect and shared values. If she were still alive today, he knew in his heart they would still be together.
Perhaps that was why Triara had been drawn to him. Despite their obvious differences, they shared a certain alignment of principles—a belief in loyalty, commitment, and doing what was right, even when it wasn’t easy.
She chuckled softly, a faint blush coloring her cheeks. “It’s… more serious, far more serious,” she admitted. “Once a Zaltaen woman claims someone as their mate, it’s an unbreakable bond. Unlike with humans, there’s no such thing as divorce.” She paused, watching his reaction, weighing how to proceed. “It’s a lifetime commitment, and one that my people take very seriously.”
He tilted his head, his gaze thoughtful as he absorbed her words. “Sounds intense. But… kind of beautiful at the same time.” He leaned back slightly, the weight of her culture settling over him. “I mean, there’s something powerful about a commitment like that, you know? No second-guessing, just… all in. Right?”
She nodded, her expression softening with a quiet sincerity. “Exactly.” Her smile deepened, a flicker of warmth in her eyes. “That’s why I’m here. It’s why I’m here to help you in your time of need.”
It was then that it dawned on him. She had chosen him as her mate. It wasn’t just about her helping him recover from an injury—it was a commitment to him. His heart skipped, caught between awe and the overwhelming sense of responsibility that came with such a decision. She wasn’t just there because she cared about him; she was there because she had chosen him, in a way that went beyond anything he had ever known in his life. It was then that he truly understood the depth of what she was offering.
Meanwhile, as his thoughts swirled, she felt the subtle shift in his mind—his surprise, his uncertainty, and the quiet wonder that followed. Her telepathic ability gave her a clear sense of his emotions, even before he could put them into words.
“Yes, Michael,” she nodded slowly, her voice soft but certain. “That’s exactly what I mean. I have chosen you to be my mate. I want you in my life, I need you.”
She had felt his hesitation, but she also sensed his desire for clarity, for understanding. It was in the way his thoughts reached out, seeking reassurance without speaking a word aloud.
“Wow,” he sighed, his voice thick with emotion. “That’s amazing.” He glanced down at his lap for a moment, as though gathering his thoughts. “You know, I don’t think I ever told you this, but after Mary died, I never thought I’d be able to love again.” He looked up at her, his eyes searching hers, his hands finding hers, their fingers intertwining. “Yet, here you are… and you’ve shown me that I can. You’ve opened my heart to love again.”
“I know, I know that honey.” She gently brushed her thumb over his knuckles. “That’s why I’m here, to let you know what you mean to me.” She looked up at the ceiling, her breath catching as a tear slipped down her cheek. “When I saw Richard and Rachel get married, I wanted the same thing.” Her voice trembled as she met his gaze again. “Yet, until I met you, I never thought I’d ever have that kind of life. I’m ashamed to admit that I was rather jealous of what they had.” A tear escaped, tracing her face as she shook her head. “I know it was wrong of me to think that way, but I can only ask the Great Maker to forgive me.”
“Oh, I’m sure He will.”
“She.”
“She?” he asked. “Are you saying that in your people’s religion, your God is a She?”
She nodded softly, a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “Yes, in our belief system, the Great Maker is She. We view Her as a nurturing, guiding force, the one who created all life with compassion and strength. It’s not a matter of gender, really. It’s just how we’ve always understood Her presence.” She paused, her gaze meeting his with quiet sincerity. “It’s a part of who we are, just as much as our traditions and values.”
“I think I’m beginning to understand you more,” he said, his voice thoughtful as he reached out, brushing his thumb gently over her hand. “All these little things—the way you see the world, your beliefs, your values… I’m starting to see how they shape who you are. And I have to say, it’s really beautiful.” He paused, his gaze lingering on her, trying to convey everything he felt in that moment. “I’m honored, Triara. I’m honored to be your mate.”
Her smile softened. “Thank you,” she said quietly, her voice full of gratitude. “I really appreciate it.” She leaned against him softly so as to not disturb his injuries. “My hope is that others of my people will see what we have together and come to see Humans as not…” She hesitated, nervously biting her lower lip as she searched for the right words. “Not as lesser beings, or… different, but more alike than we think.”
“Nice save there,” he chuckled, pointing at her with his index finger. “Look,” he shook his head, “I won’t be the first to admit that humanity has its rough edges, but we’re trying. We’ve only been out here among the stars for, what? Two hundred years or so. Zaltaens, though? How long have your people been out there?”
“Centuries,” she admitted, her tone calm but edged with a hint of pride.
He raised an eyebrow. Compared to Zaltaens, humans hadn’t even gotten their feet wet in the vast ocean of space. Still, he had to admit, for a species so new to the interstellar stage, what humanity had managed to accomplish in those two hundred years wasn’t anything to sneeze at. From building space stations like Genesis to forging alliances with alien species, they had proven themselves resourceful, determined, and, above all, resilient.
“So yeah,” he said, a touch more seriously, “we’ve got a ways to go. But you’re right about us. I hope that one day other Zaltaens will see what we have together—that we’ll be an influence on the future of both our species. Maybe even show other Zaltaens that humanity isn’t as rough around the edges as they think.”
A moment passed.
“I have one question,” he said, his voice tentative, as though testing the waters of this new reality between them. “Now that I’m your mate, what do I call you?” He thought for a moment, his brow furrowing slightly. “If we were married, I’d call you my wife and you’d call me your husband.”
She rubbed her chin thoughtfully, a small smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “You know,” she said, “Zaltaens don’t really have such formal titles for each other.” She shrugged lightly, as if the idea was foreign to her. “We just call each other our respective mates. That’s all, nothing special.”
He paused, raising an eyebrow as he considered his next words. “Then we’re going to have to fix that when I’m all better,” he said with a playful grin.
She blinked, confused. “Fix what?”
“What I mean is,” he continued, his tone softening with affection, “I don’t like just calling you my mate or partner or whatever. It feels… informal, like it doesn’t capture what we are.” He reached for her hand, his grip warm and steady. “So, as I said before, when I’m all better, we’re getting married. We’re going to make this official—and most importantly, all nice and legal in the eyes of the Space Force. That way we can live together without skirting regulations.”
He chuckled, the corners of his mouth lifting in amusement. “Because right now, we’re probably violating half a dozen regs. And if Richard saw us, you know he’d be reading us the riot act.”
She rolled her eyes, though a small smile tugged at her lips. “Yeah,” she scoffed lightly, “you’re right.”
Then, without hesitation, she nestled closer to him, tucking herself against his side. “I’d like that,” she murmured, her voice soft and genuine. “I’d really like that.”
A quiet sigh escaped her, tinged with a sense of contentment. “Good thing I finally became a citizen of the Human Federation,” she added with a hint of amusement, glancing up at him. “Otherwise, we wouldn’t even be able to get married.”
“You did what?” he asked, his eyebrows shooting up. “Did you abdicate your Zaltaen citizenship?”
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m a dual citizen but I did give up my Zaltaen naval rank to become a full-fledged officer of the Space Force.”
“Oh,” he replied, a hint of relief in his voice. “That’s… good to know. I mean, it’s not like I had a say, but I’m glad you’re still holding onto your Zaltaen citizenship.”
“Really?” she asked, tilting her head slightly, her curiosity genuine. “Why is that?”
He smiled softly, his gaze steady on hers. “Because it’s a part of who you are. Your culture, your people—it shaped you into the person that I’ve come to love, and I wouldn’t want you to lose that part of yourself. And I know, you don’t think of your people in high regard.”
“No,” she scoffed, a faint bitterness in her voice, “that’s putting it mildly. After I was cast out of my House, I wanted nothing to do with my people. Why should I? They want nothing to do with me, right?” He nodded quietly. “That’s why I’ve tried so hard to fit in with humans. I thought… if I could just leave it all behind, I’d finally feel like I belong somewhere.”
“True,” he said, patting her knee gently. “But holding onto your Zaltaen citizenship reminds you of where you came from. It doesn’t mean you have to agree with everything about your people, but it’s still part of you. It’s part of what makes you… you.”
Her gaze softened as she looked at him, his words slowly sinking in. “You really believe that?”
“I do,” he replied firmly. “And besides,” he added with a small grin, “when we eventually visit Zalta 4-B, and I do want to, I’d rather not have to go through extra red tape just because you renounced your citizenship.”
She couldn’t help but laugh, a small, genuine chuckle that broke the tension. “I guess you’ve thought this through more than I have.”
“Maybe just a little,” he teased, his grin widening. “But seriously, Triara, you’re more than just where you’re from, and you’re more than the pain of being cast out of your House. You’re stronger than that, and I think deep down, you know that too. Because if you didn’t, you wouldn’t have taken the chance on getting to know me.”
Her eyes glistened as she leaned into him. “You really do know how to say the right things, don’t you?”
“I’ve had some practice,” he quipped, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and pulling her close. “This isn’t my first shuttle ride, you know.”
It was then that his stomach began to growl loudly, breaking the tender moment. “I’m starving,” he admitted with a sheepish grin.
Triara chuckled, the sound light and melodic as she gently pulled away to stand. “Well, that’s something I can fix,” she said, brushing a strand of her blue hair behind her ear. “What would you like?”
“I could eat just about anything.”
“How about some Zaltaen food?”
“Hmm,” he hummed thoughtfully, “I don’t think I’ve ever had any Zaltaen food before.”
“Then you’re in for a treat!” she said with a grin, jumping up from the couch. She was about to walk away when she turned back to him. “Don’t go anywhere.”
“I wasn’t planning on it,” he replied with a smile.
“I’ll be right back,” she said as she headed toward the door, then paused. “I need your CAC.”
“Yeah,” he said, reaching into his pocket and handing it to her. “Here.”
“Great!” she exclaimed. “I’ll go back to my room and grab some things.”
Meanwhile, he thought about the idea of being her mate. Being her mate wasn’t just about sharing a life; it was about sharing everything—her struggles, her triumphs, her joys, her fears, and her emotions. It was about embracing her culture, her values, and the pieces of her past that had shaped her into the incredible woman he had fallen in love with. It was about building something new, together, in a way that transcended the boundaries of species or tradition.
He pushed himself up from the couch cushion, trying to find a more comfortable position, but a sharp wince of pain shot through him.
“Shit,” he cursed under his breath, his face tightening as he shifted again. “This isn’t going to be easy at all.”
—
Meanwhile, in her stateroom, Triara moved with purpose, opening her small but well-stocked refrigerator. Her hand settled on slices of althyr, a bird native to her homeworld of Zalta. Its meat was tender and flavorful, often described by humans as tasting like chicken. She didn’t entirely understand why—something about a human joke where unfamiliar foods were always compared to chicken—but she had heard the comparison enough times to accept it with a bemused shrug.
From her cupboards, she reached for a pouch of dried kallir grain, a staple food from Zalta that she had bought in the station’s commissary. The grains were small and golden, similar in appearance to Terran quinoa but with a slightly nutty, savory flavor that made them ideal as a base for stir-fry dishes. Unlike rice, kallir had a firmer texture, holding its shape even under high heat, and its flavor was rich enough to complement the bold spices she planned to use.
Next, she gathered a collection of fragrant spices, stored in intricately carved containers. Some were mild and earthy, like ground halra bark, while others were sharp and fiery, such as crushed zintra seeds, which gave off a smoky heat. Their combined scents filled the room as she carefully selected the perfect balance to flavor the dish.
Turning her attention to the basket of vegetables on her counter, she chose a vibrant mix: Zaltaen tubers with their deep, violet skin, a few Terran carrots, and crisp stalks of station-grown kale. She added a handful of bright saldrin leaves, a peppery Zaltaen green that added a bold kick to any dish, and plucked a small jar of diced rolka roots from the shelf. Their faintly sweet, citrusy flavor would brighten the stir-fry and add a bit of contrast to the smoky spices.
It was then that her mind wandered to Michael. He’d likely tease her for combining their cuisines, playfully accusing her of trying to convert him to her taste buds. In truth, she had learned that the fusion of Zaltaen and Terran flavors often created dishes that were not only palatable but downright extraordinary. Each ingredient brought something unique to the plate.
She packed the ingredients for dinner into a large bag, arranging them carefully so nothing would spill or crush in transit.
Then, she moved to her bedroom to grab some clothing. Staying at his place for a while seemed practical—not just for convenience, but to avoid the constant back-and-forth to her stateroom. Such comings and goings might raise questions she wasn’t quite ready to answer. For now, discretion felt like the wisest course.
Practicality guided her choices as she opened her wardrobe. She pulled out several comfortable outfits for lounging around— several pairs of tights and oversized tunics that reminded her of Zaltaen robes, though with a modern Terran flair. Next, she chose sleepwear: a lightweight pair of Terran-style pajamas, modest but cozy, in a shade of lavender that complemented her skin tone.
She moved to the bathroom next, gathering her essentials: shampoo, her toothbrush, and her favorite toothpaste with its subtle mint-and-citrus flavor that Terran products didn’t quite replicate. Each item felt like a small piece of home, a reminder of who she was amidst all the changes she had embraced since leaving Zalta.
By the time she finished, her bag was full but not overstuffed, each item neatly packed with her usual precision. Slinging the bag over her shoulder, she cast a final glance around her stateroom. Everything looked the same as it always did—the small touches of her life, the pieces of her identity, all waiting for her return. But her thoughts weren’t on her room anymore.
Her focus was on him. The man waiting for her in his quarters.
With a quiet breath of anticipation, she stepped into the corridor, her pace quickening as she headed toward his stateroom. Her heart raced with excitement, but she kept her focus as the soft sound of footfalls echoed down the hallway.
Her eyes darted toward the approaching figure—someone she didn’t recognize, not a familiar face, but that didn’t matter. Her instinct kicked in. Without hesitation, she broke into a quick sprint, her steps light and purposeful as she dashed toward his door. She clutched the bags tightly, ensuring nothing would slip or fall as she moved.
Just as the figure came into view, she reached his door, still a few steps ahead. She fumbled briefly for his CAC, her fingers brushing against the smooth card as she swiped it across the reader. The door slid open with a soft hiss, the familiar sound like a brief sigh of relief.
In one swift motion, she darted inside, the door closing just as the other person came closer. She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding, standing in the quiet of his stateroom for a moment, her heart still racing. The excitement of the moment, the secrecy of it, gave her a sense of exhilaration.
She looked up to find him talking with someone on his datapad.
—
Michael reached for his datapad and tapped in his sister’s contact information. His thumb hovered over the screen for a moment, hesitating before pressing the call button. As the familiar chime rang out, he leaned back in his seat, trying to get comfortable. The movement sent a sharp ache through his side, and he winced, but he pushed the pain aside, focusing on the screen.
A moment later, his sister’s image appeared. The soft light from her living room in the Alpha Centauri colony framed her face, her bright smile lighting up the screen. But her expression quickly shifted, a flicker of concern flashing in her eyes as she took in his discomfort.
“Michael!” she exclaimed, her voice sharp with alarm. “What the hell happened to you?! You look terrible!”
“Yeah,” he admitted, wincing as he shifted slightly. “I had a bit of an accident today.” He sighed, placing a hand over his chest as if to steady himself. “A shuttle accident. I damn near died.”
“What?!” Heather’s hands flew to her mouth, her voice rising. “What happened?”
“Everything was fine until takeoff, and then… all hell broke loose. The shuttle lost all computer control, started spinning out of control, and crash-landed on one of the asteroids in the Alpha Centauri system.” He paused, watching as her expression shifted from shock to horror. “I ended up with two broken ribs, a mild concussion, a banged-up knee, and a sprained wrist.”
“Oh my God!” Heather gasped, her hands still pressed against her mouth. “But you’re okay, right? I mean… all things considered?”
“Yeah,” he said, his voice tight with pain. “I’m in a lot of pain, so I can’t do much right now, but I’m okay.”
“Do you need help? Because if you need me, I can—”
“I’m good,” Michael interrupted gently, glancing up as Triara entered his stateroom. She gave him a soft smile as she set her bag down and began unpacking food. “I’ve got all the help I need.”
Heather’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Please don’t tell me it’s some random nurse,” she said, her voice carrying the distinct tone of disapproval. “Because no brother of mine is going to be taken care of by some nameless nurse who just checks in every so often—”
“Heather,” Michael cut her off, holding up his hand. “Relax. I’m fine. Really. I have the best person here to help me.” He paused for a moment, then added, “Remember how I told you a few months ago that I was dating someone?”
Heather’s brow furrowed as she rubbed her chin, her curiosity clearly piqued. “Yeah… You’ve been talking about her for months now. You keep saying she’s the best thing that’s ever happened to you.”
Meanwhile, Triara quietly unpacked the food, listening with a faint smile as the conversation unfolded.
Heather leaned closer to the screen, her tone suddenly lighter and teasing. “So, when am I finally going to meet this woman you can’t stop talking about?”
Michael glanced over at Triara, who was focused on unpacking containers of food with practiced ease. Her movements were graceful but efficient, and he couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at his lips.
“Actually,” he said, turning back to his sister, “you’re about to meet her right now.”
Heather’s eyebrows shot up, and she leaned closer to the screen. “Wait, seriously? She’s there?” Her tone shifted to something more excited, and Michael could already see her gearing up for an interrogation. “Michael, you’ve been holding out on me! Why didn’t you introduce me sooner?”
Triara froze mid-movement, clearly having caught Heather’s words. She straightened, glancing over her shoulder at Michael, a question in her eyes.
“Come here,” Michael said softly, gesturing for her to join him.
Triara hesitated for only a moment before setting down the container she was holding. She smoothed her hands over her Space Force uniform blouse—more out of habit than nervousness—and walked over to where Michael sat. He reached out, taking her hand in his, and gave her a reassuring squeeze.
“Heather,” Michael said, his voice warm as he gestured toward Triara, “this is Triara.”
Heather blinked, her smile faltering as surprise flickered across her face. “Uh,” she stuttered, glancing at the screen, “Michael… she’s a Zaltaen. She’s not human.”
“Brilliant observation there, Captain Obvious,” Michael quipped with a smirk, leaning back slightly. He winced as the movement sent a twinge through his ribs, but his tone didn’t waver. He watched as Heather folded her arms across her chest, her expression shifting to dismay at his snippy response. “What’s your point?”
“But she’s an alien, Michael!” Heather exclaimed sharply.
Triara closed her eyes briefly at the words, steadying herself. She had expected some resistance—she wasn’t naive—but hearing it spoken aloud still stung.
“How can you be so sure about this?” Heather pressed, her gaze flicking between her brother and Triara. “She’s not like us!”
Michael let out a long sigh, dragging a hand down his face. “What’s wrong?” Heather asked, her tone softening slightly, though concern still threaded through her voice.
“Don’t you think I’ve thought this through?” Michael said, his voice tight but steady. “I’ve had a lot of time to think about my life—about everything that’s happened to me. Losing Mary devastated me.” He placed a hand over his chest, as though trying to soothe the ache that still lingered there. “She was my first love, Heather. Losing her… it broke me. It put me in a very dark place—a place where I thought about doing something you can’t come back from.”
Heather’s eyes widened, her jaw dropping open as the weight of his words sank in.
“She took the gun away from me,” Michael continued, his voice trembling slightly, “and stopped me from making the biggest mistake of my life.”
“Michael—” Heather started, but he held up a hand, cutting her off.
“Let me finish.”
Heather pressed her lips together, sitting back as Michael took a steadying breath.
“Triara has been there for me every step of the way,” Michael said, his voice softer now but no less firm. “She pulled me back from the edge of that cliff. She held me in her arms when I broke down, sobbing over the loss of Mary. But most importantly, she reminded me that I could live again—that I could… love again.”
He turned to look at Triara, his eyes meeting hers. She stood motionless, her purple eyes shimmering with unshed tears as she listened.
“Before I met Triara,” Michael continued, his voice filled with emotion, “I thought that part of me had died with Mary. I thought I’d never be able to feel that way about anyone again. But Triara… she opened my heart.” He reached out, taking Triara’s hand in his. “She showed me that it was possible for me to love again.”
Michael turned back to his sister, his voice steady despite the depth of feeling behind it. “Heather, I love her. I love Triara so… so very much.”
Triara’s composure cracked, a single tear sliding down her cheek as she watched Michael go to such great lengths to defend her—to declare his love for her so openly and fiercely to his sister.
“Triara is amazing,” Michael said, glancing down as he closed his eyes for a moment. “I can’t imagine being with anyone else.”
Heather hesitated, her brow furrowing. “Michael, I don’t—”
“All I’m asking,” Michael interrupted, his hand pressing to his chest as if to emphasize the weight of his words, “is that you give her a chance. Just like I did. Get to know her before you pass judgement.”
Heather exhaled slowly, her gaze darting to Triara, who remained silent but steady, her hand still held firmly in Michael’s. “But what about Jessie?” Heather asked, her voice softening, her concern shifting.
Michael’s lips curved into a small, bittersweet smile. “I know in my heart that Triara will make a wonderful mother for her.” He squeezed Triara’s hand gently. “I know that when Jessie finally meets her, she’ll see what I see—a kind, strong, and caring woman who will love her just as much as I do. Just as much as… Mary did.”
Triara’s breath hitched at his words, her purple eyes glistening with emotion. She had imagined this moment countless times—the thought of meeting Jessie both thrilling and terrifying. The weight of the responsibility Michael was placing on her wasn’t lost, but his faith in her gave her strength.
“Michael,” Heather said hesitantly, her voice softer now, “you’re asking a lot—not just of her, but of Jessie too. She’s still so young, and after everything she’s been through…” She trailed off, her concern evident in the crease of her brow. “What if it’s too much for her? What if she can’t handle it?”
Michael’s gaze didn’t waver. “I’ve thought about that, Heather. I’ve thought about it a lot.” He let out a slow breath, his grip on Triara’s hand tightening slightly. “But Jessie is stronger than you think. She’s been through hell, but she’s come out of it with a heart that’s still open. I see it every day when I talk with her—how she’s starting to laugh again. And I know that with Triara in her life, she’ll only keep healing.”
Triara spoke then, her voice quiet but firm. “I know it won’t be easy, Heather. I don’t expect Jessie to accept me right away, and I would never try to replace her mother. Mary’s memory is precious to her—and to Michael—and I will always honor that.” She paused, her gaze steady as she met Heather’s. “But I will be there for her in whatever way she needs me. I’ll be patient. I’ll earn her trust. And I will love her, no matter how long it takes.”
Heather studied her, the skepticism in her expression softening into something more thoughtful. “You’re serious about this,” she said, more a statement than a question.
“I am,” Triara replied simply.
Heather leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms as she looked at Michael. “And you’re sure this is what you want my brother?”
“I’ve never been this sure of anything,” Michael said without hesitation.
Heather was quiet for a long moment, her gaze flicking between the two of them. Finally, she let out a sigh, her shoulders relaxing slightly. “Alright,” she said slowly. “If you’re this sure… and if you think Jessie will be okay with all of this… then I’ll trust you.”
Michael smiled, relief flooding his features. “Thank you, Heather. That means a lot.”
Heather held up a hand. “However,” she said, her tone firm, “I’m not promising to love this idea right away. And you better keep me updated on how Jessie handles all this once she’s there to live with the two of you. If things get rough, I want to know. Promise me that.”
Michael nodded. “I promise.”
Heather’s gaze softened as she looked at Triara. “And you,” she said, her tone less stern but no less serious, “you’ve got a big job ahead of you. Jessie’s not just any kid—she’s been through a lot. She’ll need someone who’s patient and understanding.”
Triara nodded. “I know. And I won’t let her down.”
Michael continued. “When I’m all better, Triara and I will come to pick Jessie up. We’ll both come to pick her up to show her that she can trust Triara like I’ve come to trust her myself.”
“Good idea,” Heather said. “Having the both of you there will go a long way to show that she can trust Triara.” Heather glanced at the clock and sighed. “However, in the meantime, I must get going. But Michael, call me soon. And Triara,” Triara looked up, “I’ll want to talk to you again. I’ll need to hear more about who’s stealing my brother’s heart.”
Triara’s smile widened slightly. “I’d like that.”
As the call ended and the screen went dark, Michael turned to Triara, his eyes filled with a mixture of affection and gratitude. “Well,” he said, “that could have gone worse.”
Triara laughed softly, wiping at the corner of her eye. “Your sister is… protective.”
“That’s one way to say it.” He sighed. “She’s a bit of a handful,” Michael admitted, pulling Triara closer. “But she means well. And deep down, I think she likes you. She just won’t admit it yet.”
Triara leaned into him, her head resting against his shoulder. “I hope so. For your sake—and Jessie’s—I want her to.”
“She will,” Michael said, his voice steady. “You’ll just have to give her time.” He patted her knee gently, though his stomach interrupted the moment with a loud growl.
“You were going to make dinner for us?” he asked, a teasing smile tugging at his lips.
“Yeah,” she said, standing up with a soft chuckle. “I will.” She turned toward his kitchenette and the bags she had brought with her, but something made her pause. Glancing back at him, she hesitated for a moment before speaking.
“Michael?”
“Yes, honey?” he replied, his tone warm and curious.
She took a step closer, her purple eyes meeting his. “I just… I appreciate what you said. How you… defended me with your sister. It means a lot.”
Michael leaned forward making him wince at which he sat back. “Triara,” he said softly, his voice carrying a weight of sincerity, “I’ll always defend you. You don’t have to thank me for that. You’re the most important person in my life—of course, I’m going to stand up for you.”
Her lips curved into a small, shy smile. “You make it sound so easy.”
“It is easy,” he said with a chuckle, leaning back against the cushions. “You deserve it. And I love you. That’s the whole reason, it’s as simple as that.”
She held his gaze for a moment longer, her expression softening, before turning for his kitchenette. “Alright,” she said, her voice quiet but warm. “You sit there and relax. Let me handle dinner.”
“I don’t think I have much of a choice,” he teased, gesturing toward his sore ribs. “Uh,” he sighed, “I wish I could help you.”
“I know you do,” she smiled as she reached up and wiped away an unshed tear, “but let me do this for you.”
With that she walked across the room towards his kitchenette and began to go through her many things that she had brought with her. Meanwhile, he looked on while admiring her from afar and she could sense his thoughts and emotions.
She began heating a pan on his small kitchenette’s induction burner, adding a splash of golden oil that shimmered in the light of the overhead stove light. The familiar, rich aroma of Zaltaen spices soon filled the air as she sprinkled in a few pinches of her carefully selected seasonings into the oil to dissolve it. Meanwhile, he closed his eyes for a moment, letting the warmth of the scents surround him.
“Smells amazing already,” he said, his eyes flicking back open to watch her.
“And I haven’t even added the althyr yet,” she replied with a chuckle, holding up the thinly sliced meat she had brought. She slid it into the pan with a satisfying sizzle, stirring it with practiced ease.
He couldn’t help but smile at the sight of her in his space, making herself at home so naturally. It felt right in a way he hadn’t expected—not just comforting, but like a glimpse of his past that he sorely missed yet also a glimpse into a future with her.
“You know,” he said, breaking the quiet, “this feels… normal. Cooking. Us just… being together like this.”
She glanced over her shoulder at him, her lips curving into a smile. “Normal can be good,” she said. “It means we’re building something.”
He nodded, leaning his head back against the couch. “Yeah, I like that.”
She turned back to her cooking, adding in a handful of finely chopped vegetables—bits of vivid greens and deep purples that he recognized as a mix of Zaltaen and Terran produce. The colors blended beautifully, just like their lives seemed to be blending, he thought.
“Do you need help with anything?” he asked, even though he knew he wasn’t in much of a position to assist.
“Michael,” she said, her tone lightly scolding but affectionate, “you’ve done enough for today. You survived a shuttle accident. Just sit there, rest, and let me take care of you.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he replied, chuckling as he adjusted himself to get more comfortable.
As she continued working, he let his thoughts wander. He thought about everything that had happened—how far he had come from those dark days after losing Mary, how much Triara had changed his life. And now, the thought of Jessie meeting her didn’t feel as daunting as it once had. He could already picture it in his mind’s eye—he could see Jessie’s cautious smile slowly turning into trust for Triara, much like he had with her back when they had first started dating.
“Hey,” Triara called, pulling him out of his thoughts. “You’re not falling asleep on me, are you?”
He opened his eyes and grinned. “Not a chance. I’m just thinking.”
“About what?” she asked, stirring the pan as the meat and vegetables as she mixed in a sauce of her world that was like teriyaki sauce.
“About you. About Jessie. About how lucky I am,” he said simply.
She paused for a moment, her hand stirring as she glanced over at him. Her smile softened, her voice quiet and thoughtful. “Well, you’re not the only one who feels lucky,” she said before turning back to the food. She stirred the pan gently, the rhythmic motion steadying her thoughts. “As I told you before, I never imagined having this kind of life. It wasn’t something I thought was possible for me, being what I am, that is.”
Michael smiled at her words, leaning his head back against the couch. “It just goes to show you that you never know until you try. And you did—you tried, you took a chance.”
Her hand slowed as his words sank in. She let out a soft breath, her thoughts drifting back to those early days of getting to know him. She had been so unsure of herself then, constantly second-guessing every word, every gesture. Human dating and courtship were so different from anything she had known on Zalta.
And yet, Michael had made it seem so easy. He had been patient with her and most importantly, kind to her. He hadn’t just accepted her differences; he had embraced them, almost excited to learn more about her and her culture.
“I was so unsure back then,” she said, her voice quiet, almost as though she were speaking to herself. “I didn’t know anything about human dating or courtship. I thought I’d make a fool of myself. But you… you didn’t care about any of that, did you?”
Michael chuckled softly, wincing slightly as the motion reminded him of his cracked ribs. He shook his head, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips. “Not even a little,” he said, his voice filled with warmth.
He leaned back against the couch, his eyes drifting closed for a moment. The ache in his body was a dull reminder of his injuries, but in that moment, it was overshadowed by the quiet comfort of her presence. “We’re both lucky,” he whispered, his voice barely audible—but she heard it, her enhanced Zaltaen hearing catching every word.
Her hands paused for a moment, her heart catching at the sincerity in his tone.
“Lucky that we found each other,” he finished, his voice steady now as he leaned forward again and opened his eyes, his gaze locking with hers. “We’ve found purpose in each other.”
She met his gaze, his blue eyes soft and thoughtful, before nodding slowly. There was nothing more to say.
Turning her attention back to the pan, she stirred the mixture with care. The aroma of spices and roasted vegetables filled the room, wrapping them both in a comforting embrace. She wanted the meal to be perfect—not just because she took pride in her cooking, but because this moment, this quiet intimacy, deserved it.
As she worked, her thoughts lingered on his words. Purpose. It was such a simple word, but it carried a weight that resonated deeply within her. She had found purpose in him, just as he had found it in her. Together, they had created something neither of them had ever imagined possible—a connection that transcended their differences and gave them both a reason to look forward.
A few minutes later, she plated the meal—two bowls filled with the perfectly cooked stir-fry atop the nutty, golden grains of kallir she had prepared alongside the stirfry. Walking over to him, she handed him one of the bowls and sat down beside him, her knee brushing against his.
“Dinner is served,” she said with a playful smile.
Michael inhaled deeply, letting the aroma wash over him. “If it tastes half as good as it smells, I might have to propose marriage to you all over again.”
She laughed, shaking her head. “Eat first, flatter later.”
They dug into the meal, the quiet hum of the station around them a comforting backdrop. For Michael, the food was delicious, but the real comfort came from the woman sitting beside him—the woman who had become his anchor, his hope, his future.
“What do you think?” she asked, her voice laced with curiosity as she watched his facial expressions closely.
“It’s…” he paused to take another bite, letting the flavors linger on his tongue, “it’s delicious.” His voice carried a quiet sincerity, and his eyes softened as they met hers. There was a warmth in his smile that was almost tender, a reflection of his gratitude that went beyond the meal.
“Thank you,” he said, his tone low but heartfelt. “Thank you so much for this. I mean it.”
Michael took another bite, chewing slowly, as if trying to savor every flavor, every ounce of care she had put into the dish. Finally, he smiled again, a hint of playfulness in his expression. “With food like this, I feel like I’m going to bounce back faster.”
Triara chuckled softly, her violet eyes sparkling with amusement. “Well, if my cooking can help speed up your recovery, I guess I’ll just have to keep feeding you,” she said, her tone light and teasing.
Michael grinned, setting his fork down for a moment as he leaned back in his chair. “I wouldn’t complain. Honestly, this might be the best meal I’ve had in months.”
She arched an eyebrow, giving him a pointed look. “Months? What have you been eating all this time?”
“Let’s just say the station commissary isn’t exactly known for its fine dining,” he replied, smirking. “I’d normally cook for myself, but cooking for one kind of sucks.”
“True,” she said, taking another bite of her own meal. “It’s always nicer to cook for more than one.”
“You’re right,” he said, nodding thoughtfully. Then, a playful glint lit up his eyes. “When I get better, I’m going to cook you a feast you’ll never forget!”
She tilted her head, intrigued, her lips curving into a small smile. “Oh? That’s a bold promise.”
“I mean it!” he exclaimed, his enthusiasm shining through. “My mother taught me how to cook, and let me tell you, she could’ve been a professional chef if she’d wanted to. She had this natural talent for it—she could make even the simplest dish taste amazing.”
His smile faded slightly, replaced by a more reflective expression. He leaned back in his chair, letting out a quiet sigh. “The war,” he said, his voice low. “I wanted to do my patriotic duty.”
For a moment, silence hung between them. She watched him carefully, noting the way his shoulders tensed slightly, the way his gaze drifted toward the table as if the weight of his decision still lingered there.
“It wasn’t an easy choice,” he continued, his tone thoughtful now. “I loved cooking—still do. But back then, I felt like I needed to do something that mattered. Something bigger than myself. And when the war started…” He trailed off, his eyes flicking back to hers, a shadow of old emotions clouding his expression. “It felt like the right thing to do. The only thing to do.”
She tilted her head, her violet eyes soft with understanding. “And do you feel like it was the right choice?”
He hesitated, his fingers idly brushing against the edge of his plate. “I don’t regret it,” he said finally. “I defended my star nation. But… sometimes I wonder what life would’ve been like if I’d chosen differently. Stayed home. Focused on cooking. Maybe even opened a little restaurant.”
The corner of her mouth lifted in a faint smile. “You’d have made a great chef. I can tell.”
His gaze lifted to hers, and for a moment, the tension in his shoulders eased. “Thanks,” he said softly. “But honestly, if I hadn’t chosen this path, I never would’ve ended up here. And I never would’ve met you.”
Her cheeks warmed at his words, but she didn’t look away. Instead, she reached across the table, resting her hand lightly over his. “Life has a funny way of working out, doesn’t it?”
He nodded, his smile returning, small but genuine. “Yeah, it does.”
Her gaze lingered on him for a moment longer before she released his hand and sat back. “Well,” she said, her tone lightening, “if you ever decide to retire from Space Force, you can always fall back on cooking.”
He chuckled, shaking his head as a small grin spread across his face. “Maybe I will,” he said, his voice softening. Then, as if struck by an idea, he reached out and took her hand again, his eyes sparkling with playful enthusiasm. “But if I do, we’re going to do it together.”
She raised an eyebrow, her lips curving into a curious smile. “Together?”
He nodded, looking upward as he raised his free arm dramatically, as though painting a picture in the air. “Picture it: a fusion of Terran and Zaltaen cuisine. A restaurant that blends the best of both worlds. Exotic spices, bold flavors, dishes that no one’s ever dreamed of.” His tone grew more animated, his grin widening as the vision unfolded in his mind.
He lowered his gaze back to her, his enthusiasm softening into something more intimate. “Yeah,” he said, his voice quieter now, but no less certain. “That would be amazing.”
She tilted her head, her violet eyes studying him. For a moment, she didn’t say anything, letting his words settle in the space between them. Then, her smile grew, warm and genuine. “You’re serious about this, aren’t you?”
“Why not?” he said with a shrug, his thumb brushing lightly over the back of her hand. “I can’t think of anyone I’d rather do it with.”
He went back to eating, savoring each bite, while she sat quietly, her gaze lingering on his relaxed expression. His words stayed with her, wrapping around her like a warm blanket. He truly sounded like he wanted to build a life with her—not just a fleeting promise, but something real, something lasting.
It was then that her mind began to wander, painting a vivid picture of what their shared future could look like. She could see it—Michael in an apron, his confident stride as he plated dishes while she imagined herself working alongside him, their movements seamless as they created meals together. In the background, the dining room bustled with energy—Terrans and Zaltaens alike, all eager to taste the unique fusion of their cultures.
But as quickly as the vision came, practicality crept in, and doubt followed. The image of the bustling restaurant faded, replaced by a much harsher reality. How would they even begin to afford something like that? Being that she was no longer part of her House, she didn’t have access to the vast wealth that her House commanded back on Zalta. She had no safety net, no resources to contribute.
Her fingers tightened slightly around her fork as she glanced at him, her voice hesitant. “But how would we do that?”
Michael looked up from his plate, mid-bite, his brow furrowing slightly. “What do you mean?” he asked after swallowing.
“How would we be able to afford to do that?” she asked, her tone quieter now. “I can only imagine that it would be expensive. Right? And…” She hesitated, looking down at the bowl in her hands. “I don’t have access to the kind of wealth that I used to have.”
“When I do decide to leave the Space Force,” he said, his voice calm, “they offer the ability to take out a loan. At a very attractive rate, too. It’s one of the perks of service. And not only that but I’ve been saving for years. Between taking out a loan and what I’ve put away, we’d have a decent starting point. And then there’s how you’re an officer of the Space Force as well, you too would be able to take out a loan.”
She blinked, surprised at how easily he seemed to have considered the logistics. “You’ve… really thought about this, haven’t you?”
He smiled, a faint blush coloring his cheeks. “Well, maybe not this exactly. But I’ve always wanted to have something to fall back on. A plan for when my time in the military is over. And now…” His smile softened, his thumb brushing lightly over her knuckles. “Now that I’ve met you, it feels like more than just a plan. It feels like a dream worth chasing.”
He reached for her knee, his hand resting there for a moment before giving it a gentle pat. “We’ll make it work. You just have to believe in your dreams.”
“It’s been a while since I’ve dreamt like this,” she said softly, her voice carrying the weight of years spent avoiding hope, avoiding disappointment.
Michael’s smile didn’t falter. If anything, it softened, filled with quiet determination. “Then I’ll dream big enough for the two of us,” he said. He once again gave her knee a gentle pat, his touch light but steady, as if anchoring her to the moment.
“How can you be so sure?” she asked, her tone quiet, almost hesitant.
He leaned back slightly, his thumb idly brushing against her knee before his hand returned to the utensil resting in his bowl. “Because I’ve already had the dream where everything fell apart,” he said, his voice steady but tinged with the faintest shadow of pain. “I’ve lived that nightmare. I’ve felt what it’s like to lose someone you love. And with you, I’ve been given another chance. We’ve been given another chance.” His eyes met hers, unwavering. “And I have no intention on wasting it.”
Her lips curved into a small, tentative smile. “You really do dream big, don’t you?”
Michael chuckled, the sound warm and comforting. “Someone’s got to. It might as well be me.”
She laughed softly, the sound light but genuine. For the first time in years, the idea of dreaming—of building something meaningful, something lasting, a legacy—didn’t feel so far-fetched.
Her gaze shifted to him as he scooped up the last bite of food from his bowl, the look of satisfaction on his face making her smile widen just a little more. She raised an eyebrow. “Do you want any more?”
“Please!” he exclaimed with enthusiasm. “This is incredible, Triara. If you keep cooking like this, you’re going to spoil me.”
She rolled her eyes playfully as she stood, taking his bowl and walking over to the small kitchenette where she had prepared the meal. “Spoil you? I think you’ve already spoiled yourself with those compliments,” she teased, glancing back at him.
“Hey,” he called after her, his grin unmistakable even in his voice, “it’s not flattery if it’s true. And I do speak the truth, you know.”
She shook her head, her smile lingering as she began refilling his bowl from the pan on the stove. The simple act of serving him felt oddly fulfilling, not in a way that made her feel small, but in a way that made her feel connected to him.
—
Meanwhile, in the Alpha Centauri colony, Heather stood in the middle of her bedroom, a half-packed bag sprawled open on the bed. The room was small but cozy, with warm lighting and shelves lined with photos of family, friends, and Jessie, Michael’s daughter. Heather’s gaze flicked to one particular photo of her brother, taken years ago in his Space Force uniform. He looked younger then, his eyes bright with purpose, his smile confident.
“What have you gotten yourself into, Michael?” she whispered to herself, her hands pausing over the folded sweater she was about to add to her bag.
She exhaled deeply, pressing her fingers to her temples. The call with her brother replayed in her mind—the mention of his injuries, the Zaltaen woman named Triara, the conviction in his voice when he spoke about her. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust Michael’s judgment. He’d always been the responsible one, the steady one, the one who could hold the family together even after the tragedies they’d faced.
But this? A relationship with an alien? Heather couldn’t shake the unease that gnawed at her. It wasn’t prejudice, not really—at least, she didn’t think so. It was more about the risks, the unknowns. Michael had already been through so much. He lost the love of his life and mother of his child. And Jessie—sweet, resilient Jessie—had been through even more, she lost her mother.
She walked over to the dresser and grabbed a handful of clothes, stuffing them into the bag with more force than necessary. “You don’t think things through, do you?” she muttered, shaking her head. “You just dive headfirst into whatever feels right.”
The words felt sharp, even as she said them, and she paused for a moment, her hands gripping the edge of the drawer. A flicker of guilt crept into her chest. She didn’t mean to sound harsh—it was more frustration than anything else. Frustration at her bother, at the situation, and maybe even at herself for not understanding it.
“Mom?”
Heather turned, startled, to see Amy, her teenage daughter, standing in the doorway. She tilted her head, her brown eyes narrowing as she glanced at the open bag on the bed. “What are you doing?”
Heather straightened, smoothing down her shirt as if caught doing something she wasn’t supposed to. “I’m packing, sweetheart,” she said, her voice softening.
“Packing? For what?” Amy stepped further into the room, her gaze flicking from the bag to her mother’s face. “Are you going somewhere?”
Heather hesitated, unsure how much to tell her daughter. “I’m going to visit Uncle Michael,” she said finally, choosing her words carefully. “He had an accident, and I just… I need to check on him.”
Amy’s eyes widened with concern. “Is he okay? What happened?” Her voice trembled slightly, the worry clear. Michael was always her favorite—the one she ran to when she and her mother butted heads. He had a way of softening the sharp edges, of making her mother see things differently.
Heather softened at the sight of her daughter’s concern and walked over to her. “He’s okay,” she reassured her, placing her hands gently on Amy’s shoulders. “He got hurt, but he’s recovering. I just want to make sure he’s doing alright.”
Amy frowned, her lips pressing together in that determined way Heather knew all too well. “Then I’m coming with you!” she exclaimed suddenly, her eyes lighting up with excitement. “I’ve always wanted to visit the station, and this is as good a time as any.”
Heather blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift from worry to enthusiasm. “Amy…” she started, her tone cautious.
“What?” Amy asked, crossing her arms in defiance. “You just said he’s hurt. He needs us, Mom.”
Before Heather could respond, a small voice piped up behind Amy, stopping her mid-thought.
“What happened to Daddy?” Jessie asked, her small voice trembling as she peeked into the room.
Heather’s heart clenched at the sight of Jessie standing in the doorway, clutching her stuffed bear to her chest. The little girl’s eyes were wide with worry, her bottom lip quivering.
“Is my Daddy alright?” Jessie asked again, her voice barely above a whisper.
Amy turned to her young cousin, her face softening instantly. “He’s okay, Jessie,” she said, crouching down to Jessie’s level. “Your Daddy just got hurt, but he’s going to be fine. Right, Mom?”
Heather stepped forward, kneeling beside Amy so she could meet Jessie’s gaze. “That’s right, sweetheart,” she said gently. “Your dad is okay. He just needs some time to rest and heal.”
Jessie’s grip on her stuffed bear tightened, and she took a hesitant step closer. “What happened to him?”
Heather hesitated, unsure of how much to say. Jessie was young, but she wasn’t oblivious. She deserved to know the truth—at least enough to ease her fears.
“There was a little accident,” Heather said carefully. “His shuttle had some trouble, and he got hurt when it landed. But the doctors are taking good care of him, and he’s already feeling better.”
Jessie’s eyes filled with tears, and she clutched the bear tighter. “I want to see him,” she said, her voice trembling. “I want to go to him.”
Heather reached out, gently brushing a tear off Jessie’s cheek. “I know you do,” she said softly. “And we’re going to him soon. I promise.”
Jessie looked up at her aunt, hope flickering in her teary eyes. “We are?”
“Yes,” Heather said, glancing briefly at Amy before turning her attention back to Jessie. “Amy and I are going to see him tomorrow. We’ll make sure he’s okay.”
“But… I want to come too,” Jessie said, her voice small but firm. “He’s my daddy!”
Heather exhaled quietly, glancing at Amy, who was now watching her with the same hopeful expression. She felt the weight of both their gazes, her heart aching.
“Jessie,” Heather said gently, “the station isn’t like here in this colony. It’s a big, busy place, and your dad needs time to rest. He might not be ready for visitors just yet.”
Jessie’s face fell, and she looked down at her bear, her small fingers gripping its worn fur. “But I’ll be good,” she whispered. “I just want to be with him.”
Amy placed a hand on Jessie’s shoulder. “If we’re going, she should come too,” she said, her tone calm but insistent. “Uncle Michael will want to see her. You know he will.”
Heather looked between the two of them, her resolve wavering. She had planned to handle this trip on her own—or at least with Amy. Bringing Jessie added another layer of complexity. But as she watched the little girl clutch her bear, her eyes brimming with quiet desperation, Heather knew she couldn’t say no.
She sighed, sitting back on her heels. “Alright,” she said finally, her voice soft but steady. “We’ll all go together.”
Jessie’s head shot up, her face lighting up with a mixture of relief and joy. “Really?”
“Really,” Heather said, managing a small smile. “But you have to promise me you’ll listen, Jessie. The station is a very different place from what you’re used to. No running off, no wandering around. And if your dad needs rest, we’ll give him space. Deal?”
Jessie nodded quickly, her grip on the bear loosening. “I promise.”
Amy grinned, standing up and ruffling Jessie’s hair. “See? Told you we’d all go together.”
Heather stood as well, rubbing her temples as the weight of the decision settled over her. “Alright, then,” she said, glancing at the clock. “We leave early tomorrow morning. Both of you, go pack your bags.”
Jessie ran off leaving the two of them standing in Heather’s bedroom.
“Okay, Mother,” Amy said, planting her hands on her hips with the kind of boldness only a nineteen-year-old could muster. Her tone was sharp, and her stance defiant. “What happened that’s got you all in a tizzy?”
Heather closed her eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath. She turned slowly to face her daughter, her expression caught somewhere between exhaustion and amusement. “A tizzy? Really?”
“Yes, a tizzy,” Amy shot back, raising an eyebrow. “You’re pacing, throwing clothes into a bag like you’re about to fight a war, and you’re muttering to yourself. So, spill it. What’s going on?”
“Your uncle has become involved with someone, and I’m worried about him—that’s all,” Heather said, her tone clipped as she carefully folded another sweater and placed it in her bag.
“Involved?” Amy asked, her eyebrows shooting up. “As in, he’s dating someone?”
“Yeah,” Heather replied, her attention shifting back to the open bag. “He is.”
“That’s great!” Amy exclaimed, her face lighting up with excitement. “It’s about time he gets out there into the dating scene. Why are you concerned about this? I’d have thought you’d be happy for him after he lost his wife and all.”
Heather paused, glancing at her daughter but saying nothing.
Amy, never one to let silence win, stepped closer, placing her hands firmly on her hips. “Spill it, Mother,” she said, her tone insistent. “What’s going on with Michael?”
Heather sighed, running a hand through her hair as she straightened up. “It’s not that simple, Amy.”
“Why not?” Amy shot back, her eyes narrowing. “You’re acting like this is a bad thing. Isn’t it a good thing that he’s finally moving on from losing Mary? He’s been alone for so long.”
Heather pressed her lips into a thin line, debating how much to say. Finally, she sighed, leaning against the bedframe. “He’s not just dating anyone, Amy. He’s dating a Zaltaen.”
“So?” Amy put her hands on her hips, her expression defiant. “So am I, and you don’t have a problem with Narin.”
Heather opened her mouth, then closed it, caught off guard. “It’s different,” she said after a moment, her tone defensive.
“How is it different?” Amy shot back, her eyes narrowing. “Because I’m your daughter and he’s your brother? Or is it because I’ve already worn you down when it comes to Zaltaens?”
Heather let out a long sigh, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Amy, this isn’t about you and Narin. It’s just… it’s complicated, alright?”
“No, Mom,” Amy said, stepping closer, her voice rising slightly. “What’s complicated is that you’re judging Uncle Michael’s relationship before you even know anything about her. You don’t even know her name.”
“Her name is Triara,” Heather said sharply, straightening up. “And I’m not judging her. I just…” She faltered, her gaze dropping. “I’m just worried about your uncle.”
“Why?” Amy pressed, her voice softening slightly. “Because she’s Zaltaen? Or because you think Uncle Michael isn’t ready to move on?”
Heather’s shoulders sagged, and she looked away, unable to meet her daughter’s gaze. “Both,” she admitted quietly. “He’s been through so much, Amy. Losing Mary… it broke him. And now he’s with someone from a culture that doesn’t exactly get us. Humans and Zaltaens… we’re different. They think we’re impulsive and overly emotional. What if she doesn’t understand him? What if she hurts him?”
Amy frowned, but her stance softened as she listened, her arms loosening at her sides. “Mom,” she said gently, her tone calm but earnest, “you’re making a lot of assumptions about her—and about Uncle Michael. You don’t think he knows how different Zaltaens are? He’s not an idiot. If he’s with her, it’s because he wants to be. Because he sees something in her—just like I see something in Narin.”
She paused, giving her mother a pointed look. “You had your doubts about me dating Narin too, remember? You didn’t think it would work because we’re so different. But you took the time to actually get to know him. And now you like him, don’t you?”
Heather hesitated, her lips pressing into a thin line.
Amy tilted her head slightly, her voice softening. “All I’m saying is, maybe it’s the same with Uncle Michael and Triara. Just because she’s a Zaltaen doesn’t mean it won’t work. You gave Narin a chance. Why can’t you give her one too?”
Heather shook her head, running a hand through her hair. “I just don’t want to see him get hurt again.”
“I get that,” Amy said, her tone firm but understanding. “But you know what else would hurt him? You not giving Triara a chance. Uncle Michael’s happy, Mom. Can’t you just be happy for him?”
Heather sighed deeply, her hands falling to her sides. “It’s not that simple, Amy. Happiness isn’t always enough.”
Amy tilted her head, studying her mother carefully. “No, it’s not,” she agreed. “But it’s a good start. And isn’t that what matters right now? That he’s starting to feel again? That he’s starting to live again? That he’s not stuck in that dark place anymore?”
Heather looked at her daughter, the weight of her words settling over her like a heavy blanket. She thought back to her conversations with Michael over the past few months, the lightness in his voice whenever he mentioned that he was dating someone. It had been a long time since he sounded like that—like he had something, or someone, to look forward to.
“I just…” Heather began, then sighed, shaking her head. “I just need to see it for myself. I need to know that she’s good for him.”
“Fair enough,” Amy said, crossing her arms over her chest, her voice calm but firm. “But do me a favor, Mom: don’t go in with your mind already made up. Get to know Triara first, the same way you got to know Narin. Actually… listen to her. You might be surprised—just like you were with my boyfriend.”
Heather gave her daughter a tired smile, her lips curving slightly despite the tension still lingering in the room. “When did you get so wise?”
Amy grinned, shrugging. “Must run in the family.”
Heather chuckled softly, shaking her head. “Alright, fine. I promise I’ll give her a fair chance.”
Amy nodded, satisfied. “Good. Because if she’s anything like Narin, you’ll love her.”
Heather arched an eyebrow, giving her daughter a teasing look. “I wouldn’t go that far just yet.”
“We’ll see,” Amy said with a smirk before turning toward the door. She paused for a moment, glancing back. “Oh, and Mom?”
“Yes?” Heather asked, raising an eyebrow.
“If you don’t give her a chance,” Amy said with mock seriousness, “I’ll call Narin and have him explain Zaltaen culture to you. In painful detail. For hours.”
Heather groaned, tossing a folded shirt at her daughter, who ducked and laughed as she slipped out of the room.
As the laughter faded and the silence returned, Heather sat down on the edge of the bed, her hands resting on the bag. She sighed, her thoughts spinning.
Maybe Amy was right. Maybe she had been too quick to judge. But the protective part of her, the part that had watched her little brother break into pieces after Mary’s death, wasn’t ready to let go of her doubts just yet.
Still, a promise was a promise. And she’d keep it. For Michael’s sake.
—
As Michael finished his last bite, he sat back with a heavy sigh, his head sinking into the couch cushions. A long, drawn-out yawn escaped him, the kind that seemed to come from deep within his chest. The exhaustion was visible in every line of his face, from the faint shadows under his eyes to the way his shoulders sagged. The weight of the day, the pain, and the slow recovery from his injuries were catching up to him.
“Are you tired?” she asked softly, her voice carrying a note of concern. She watched him carefully, her sharp eyes taking in the subtle wince as he adjusted his position.
“Yeah,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck as another yawn forced its way out. “I am. I’d like to go to bed.”
“Alright,” she said, springing to her feet with a kind of eager energy that startled him. “Let’s get you ready for bed. Sleep will do you wonders.”
He looked up at her, blinking at her sudden enthusiasm, before pushing himself to the edge of the couch. Bracing himself with his hands, he made an attempt to stand. The moment he put weight on his injured knee, however, a sharp jolt of pain shot through him, and he let out a frustrated curse.
“Shit,” he muttered through gritted teeth, his hands gripping the armrests tightly as he sank back down. “Now how the hell am I supposed to get up?”
She stepped closer, her expression calm but determined. “Easy,” she said, extending her arms toward him. “I’ll grab hold of your arms, and I’ll help you up.”
He raised an eyebrow, skeptical. “Really? Just like that?”
“Sure,” she said with a smirk, tilting her head in that playful way that made him trust her instinctively. It also made him a little suspicious about what she was planning.
With a small grumble, he extended his arms toward her, muttering under his breath, “Too young to feel this old.”
She grasped his forearms firmly, her hands warm against his skin. Then, with what seemed like no effort at all, she pulled him to his feet in one quick, smooth motion. Before he could fully find his balance, her arm slipped around his back to steady him, keeping him close to her. The sudden shift brought him closer than he’d anticipated, their faces mere inches apart. He could feel the warmth of her body against his, and for a brief moment, he forgot the ache in his knee.
“Now, was that so hard?” she asked, her tone teasing but gentle, her arm still wrapped securely around him.
“No,” he muttered, glancing down at her, though he couldn’t help the faint smile that tugged at his lips. “You’re stronger than you look.”
“And you’re heavier than you look,” she quipped, her smirk widening as she stepped back slightly, still keeping her arm around him for support.
That earned a soft laugh from him, the sound low and warm. “Touché.”
She shifted her hold, moving to his bad side to make sure he had support. “Alright, where to first?”
“Bathroom,” he said without hesitation.
She blinked, realizing what that meant. For a moment, she hesitated, her mind catching up with the practicalities of what she was about to help him with. This wasn’t exactly the sort of closeness she’d envisioned when she thought about caring for him. Helping him brush his teeth, maybe. Tucking him into bed, sure. But this? This was a level of intimacy she hadn’t fully prepared herself for.
He, however, seemed completely unfazed. He caught the flicker of hesitation on her face and chuckled, the sound low and reassuring. “What’s the problem?” he asked, his voice laced with amusement.
“I just…” She paused, searching for the right words. “I didn’t expect to be… well… seeing you in various stages of undress tonight.”
He threw his head back and laughed, though the movement caused him to wince slightly. “Triara, how else am I supposed to take a piss and brush my teeth?”
She couldn’t help but laugh with him, the absurdity of the situation breaking the tension in her chest. “Fair point,” she said, shaking her head. “You’re right.”
“Come on,” he said, gesturing toward the hallway. “Let’s get this over with.”
Adjusting her hold on him, she slipped her arm securely around his waist and helped him hobble toward the bathroom. His weight leaned against her, but she carried it easily, her Zaltaen strength making the task feel lighter than it should have been.
When they reached the bathroom door, he paused, glancing at her with a raised eyebrow. “You sure you’re ready for this?”
“Are you?” she shot back, smirking as she gestured toward the door.
He chuckled, shaking his head. “Not really, but let’s get it done.”
Inside, she carefully maneuvered him to the counter. He braced himself against the edge as he reached for his toothbrush, his movements slow but deliberate.
For a moment, the scene felt surprisingly normal—mundane, even. She stood back, watching him as he brushed his teeth. Her gaze softened as she took in the quiet determination in his expression. This wasn’t the romanticized idea of caring for someone she’d once imagined. It wasn’t glamorous, or easy, or even particularly graceful.
But it was real.
There was something profoundly intimate about these small, unguarded moments. The vulnerability he showed by letting her see him like this, by trusting her with the parts of himself that weren’t strong or self-assured—it made her feel closer to him than she ever had before.
He caught her staring in the mirror, and his tired, grateful smile broke through her thoughts.
“You’re staring,” he teased, his voice light as he reached for the toothpaste.
“Am I?” she asked, raising an eyebrow as she crossed her arms.
“Yeah,” he said, his grin widening slightly. “It’s kind of flattering.”
She rolled her eyes, though her lips curved into a small smile. “Just hurry up,” she said, her tone softening. “You’ve got a bed waiting for you.”
He nodded, finishing up before turning to her with a grateful look. “Thanks,” he said simply.
“For what?”
“For being here,” he said, his voice quiet but sincere.
She didn’t reply right away, but as she helped him back to the bedroom, her heart swelled with warmth. Being there for him felt right in a way she couldn’t put into words.
—
Moments later, she helped him sit down on the edge of his bed, watching closely as he fumbled with the waistband of his pants. His hands, usually so steady and capable, now trembled slightly as he tried to maneuver the fabric over his injured knee. The frustration was written all over his face—his lips pressed into a thin line, his jaw tightening as he realized how much effort something so simple was taking.
She crouched down in front of him, her movements slow and deliberate, as though she were afraid of intruding too much. “Here,” she said softly, her voice gentle but firm, “let me help.”
He hesitated, his hands freezing mid-motion. For a moment, she saw the flicker of his pride flare up, the instinct to wave her off, to insist he could do it on his own. But then his shoulders sagged, and he nodded—just once, barely a movement. He couldn’t deny that he needed her help, even if the admission stung.
Her hands were careful and considerate as she eased the fabric down his leg. She worked methodically, taking great care not to jar his injured knee. Her touch was firm but gentle, her fingers brushing against his skin as she slid the pants down and over his feet.
Once the pants were off, she stood and moved to his dresser, pulling out a pair of loose nightclothes. She unfolded them quickly and knelt again, helping him slip his legs into the soft fabric. The intimacy of the moment wasn’t lost on her. This wasn’t about romance or attraction—it was about trust, about being there for someone when they were at their most vulnerable.
“Thanks,” he murmured as she helped him settle the waistband around his hips. His voice was quiet but sincere, the gratitude in his tone clear.
“Anytime,” she replied with a small smile, standing and pulling the covers back for him.
He shifted slowly, carefully, and she was there to steady him when his balance wavered. Her hands lingered just long enough to make sure he was comfortable before she tucked the blankets snugly around him, adjusting the pillows behind his head.
He let out a deep sigh as his body finally relaxed, the tension in his muscles melting away. For the first time all day, he looked truly at ease. “You take good care of me,” he said, his voice tinged with both gratitude and something softer—something unspoken.
“It’s what I’m here for,” she replied, her smile widening just a little.
As she turned to leave, heading toward the doorway, his voice stopped her.
“Triara?”
She paused, looking back over her shoulder. “Yes?”
“Aren’t you going to be going to sleep yourself?” he asked, his head lifting slightly off the pillow as he glanced toward the adjoining room.
“Yeah,” she said, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “I figured you’d want me to sleep in the other room.”
He frowned, his brow furrowing as though the thought genuinely puzzled him. “Now what would make you think that?”
She blinked, caught off guard.
“There’s more than enough room in this bed for the both of us,” he said simply, patting the empty space beside him.
She froze for a moment, standing half-in, half-out of his bedroom as she mulled over his words. The idea of sharing a bed with him, of actually lying beside him through the night, was something she hadn’t fully allowed herself to imagine. It wasn’t just about proximity—it was about intimacy, closeness, trust.
And she wanted that. She wanted it more than she had admitted to herself.
“Come on,” he coaxed gently, patting the mattress again. “Come to bed with me.”
Her hesitation melted under the warmth of his invitation, and she nodded. “Alright,” she said softly. “I will.”
She stepped fully into the room, and he watched as she began to undress.
First, her uniform blouse came off, her movements unhurried and deliberate as she folded it neatly and placed it over the back of a chair. Then she bent down to unlace her boots, slipping them off one by one and setting them beside the chair. Finally, she unfastened her uniform pants, letting them slide down her legs before folding them and adding them to the pile.
She stood there for a moment in just her underclothes, her back to him, before reaching behind her to unclasp her bra. She slipped it off with ease, her bare back exposed to him as she tossed the garment onto the chair.
He watched her silently, his gaze steady and thoughtful. There was nothing overtly sexual about the way she undressed—no lingering gestures or coy glances. And yet, there was an undeniable grace to her movements, a quiet confidence that made it impossible not to admire her.
For her part, she had thought she might struggle with the idea of being naked in front of him. Her deeply ingrained Zaltaen sense of modesty—so rigidly taught and reinforced throughout her upbringing—had always dictated that it was wrong, even shameful, to show one’s unclothed body to someone else. To stand exposed, completely vulnerable, went against everything her culture had instilled in her.
Yet here she was, standing before him with absolutely no clothing on, and to her surprise, she didn’t feel any of the unease she had anticipated. Instead, there was a kind of calm, a strange but welcome acceptance that washed over her. She felt… safe.
And then there was the other fear she had carried, one she hadn’t fully acknowledged until this moment—the fear of what he would think. She had imagined, even braced herself for, the idea that his thoughts might drift toward something erotic. She wasn’t naïve; she understood humans often found Zaltaens attractive in ways that sometimes made her people uncomfortable.
But as she opened her mind to let his surface thoughts in, there was none of that. No base desires, no inappropriate imaginings. Instead, what she found there was something far more profound. Admiration. Respect. A quiet awe that spoke volumes about how he saw her—not just as a body, but as a person.
Her chest tightened slightly, a warmth spreading through her at the realization.
“You know,” he said softly, breaking the silence, “you’re stunning. Beautiful, even.”
The sincerity in his voice made her heart skip a beat.
She turned around, letting him see her entire self. The purple skin of her cheeks deepened with a faint blush, the warmth spreading to the tips of her ears. Her expression hovered somewhere between flustered and reassured, as if she wasn’t quite sure how to absorb the depth of his words.
“Thank you,” she murmured, her voice barely audible, almost shy.
He smiled, his gaze warm and steady, holding none of the hesitation she felt. “Just stating the obvious,” he said simply.
She shook her head, a shy smile tugging at her lips as she turned back toward the bathroom. For a moment, she lingered there, illuminated softly by the glow of the bedside lamp. Her bare figure cast faint shadows on the walls, but there was nothing cold or clinical about the moment.
The vulnerability of standing before him without a single barrier—no clothing, no cultural pretense, no emotional walls—wasn’t lost on her. But neither was the trust that had brought her to this place. She realized, with a kind of quiet certainty, that she trusted him in a way she had never trusted anyone else before. Not even Richard.
It was more than just the absence of judgment in his thoughts. It was the way he looked at her, like she was something rare and remarkable. Like she mattered.
As she moved toward the bathroom, her fingers brushing lightly against the doorway, she let out a small breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. In the reflection of the mirror, she caught a glimpse of herself—flushed but calm, her expression softer than it had been in years.
This wasn’t what she had imagined love would look like. But as she stood there, her reflection gazing back at her, she realized this moment wasn’t about passion or grand declarations. It was about quiet understanding, shared respect, and a connection that went far deeper than words.
For the first time, she wasn’t afraid to let herself believe in it.
—
Triara finished brushing her teeth and walked back into his bedroom, her bare feet padding softly against the cool floor. The faint glow from the kitchenette spilled into the room, casting gentle shadows along the walls and bathing the space in a warm, muted light.
As she approached the bed, she hesitated, her hand brushing lightly against the doorframe. He lay there, his head resting against the pillow, his breathing slow and steady. His features, softened by exhaustion and the glow of the light, seemed almost unguarded. For a moment, she simply stood there, taking in the sight of him.
There was something profoundly peaceful about the way he looked in that moment, as though the day’s pain and frustration had finally let go of him. She could see the faint rise and fall of his chest, the way his lashes cast faint shadows over his cheekbones. He looked… vulnerable. And it struck her that he had entrusted that vulnerability to her.
With quiet resolve, she climbed into bed beside him, her movements careful and deliberate so as not to jostle him too much. The mattress dipped slightly beneath her weight, and she settled onto her side, tucking one arm beneath her head as she turned toward him.
“Now remember,” he said, breaking the silence with a voice laced in teasing warmth, “no rolling over to my side.”
She arched an eyebrow, propping her head up with one hand as she studied him. “Why not?” she asked, though the answer dawned on her almost immediately. Her lips curved into a soft, knowing smile. “Oh… yeah. Having you wake up and yelp in pain wouldn’t be a good idea.”
“Not really,” he agreed, a chuckle rumbling low in his chest.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” she said, laughing softly as she adjusted herself, facing him fully now.
A comfortable silence settled between them for a moment, the kind of silence that felt natural, unforced. Then, he spoke again, his tone shifting slightly, carrying that familiar mix of amusement and practicality. “And now for this.”
He paused briefly before calling out, “Computer?”
The device chirped in response.
“Set do-not-disturb mode and turn the lights off.”
With a soft chime, the room was plunged into darkness, save for the faint, golden glow of the nightlight emanating from the kitchenette. The dim light created a cozy ambiance, wrapping the room in a kind of stillness that made every small sound—the rustle of the sheets, the faint hum of the station—feel amplified.
She adjusted herself again, tucking her legs slightly as she turned onto her side to face him. She closed her eyes for a brief moment and inhaled, the faint, comforting scent of him grounding her. It was a mix of warmth and familiarity—something distinctly Michael—and a hint of the soap he had used earlier. It reminded her of how close they had grown, of the trust that had been steadily building between them.
The realization made her chest tighten slightly, but not in a way that hurt. It was the kind of tightness that came with an overwhelming sense of safety, of belonging. She hadn’t felt this way in years. Maybe ever.
“Good night, my love,” he murmured, his voice breaking the stillness with soft, heartfelt sincerity.
Her heart swelled at his words, the warmth of them spreading through her like a quiet flame. She reached out instinctively, her fingers brushing lightly against his arm in a touch that felt both tender and grounding.
“Good night, Michael,” she whispered. Then, after a brief pause, her voice dropped lower, carrying a depth of emotion she hadn’t fully voiced before. “I love you.”
The words hung between them, soft but undeniable. She wasn’t sure if he’d fully heard them—his breathing had already begun to slow, the steady rhythm of it signaling that he was on the edge of sleep. But it didn’t matter. She wasn’t saying it to demand a response. She was saying it because it was true.
As his breaths deepened into the rhythmic cadence of sleep, she stayed awake a little while longer. Her purple eyes adjusted to the dim light, and her gaze drifted toward the faint outline of his figure beside her. His form was relaxed now, his body at peace in a way that felt rare and precious.
Her thoughts wandered, trailing through memories of all the moments that had brought them to this one. The quiet conversations, the laughter they had shared, the small ways he had proven, over and over, that he saw her for who she truly was. Not just a Zaltaen. Not just an alien on a human station. But her.
The idea of sharing a bed with someone had once seemed strange to her. Zaltaen culture often shied away from such casual intimacy, especially without the bonds of formal partnership. But this… this felt natural. It felt right.
For the first time in years, she felt like she was exactly where she was meant to be.
Her eyes grew heavier as her thoughts settled into that comforting realization. Before she drifted off, she reached out one more time, her fingers grazing the edge of his hand. It was a small gesture, but it made her feel connected to him, even in sleep.
And as the soft hum of the station filled the room, she let herself relax completely, the warmth of Michael’s presence beside her lulling her into a deep, dream-filled rest.
Last updated on Tuesday, January 7th, 2025 at 1:56 PM by trparky.
