“Say what you were going to say.”
“Jessa.”
“Say it.”
He looked up at me. Those black eyes, and for once I didn’t search for something to hold onto. I just looked.
“You look like someone I can’t afford to lose,” he said. “And you’re about to walk into a place where I can’t protect you.”
I put my hand on his face. The skin under my palm went warm. I felt it, the heat, the Khavai response, the thing he couldn’t control.
He went still. Not the controlled stillness of a captain in a briefing. The stillness of a man who’d stopped breathing.
“You crawled through a maintenance conduit and dropped into a room full of hostiles,” I said. “And you’re sitting on this bunk telling me I look ready.”
“Jessa.”
“Stop saying my name and do something about it.”
He pulled me down to him.
Not gentle. Not careful.
His mouth found mine. The heat that had been in his hands and his jaw and his skin for weeks was everywhere at once: his lips, his breath, and the grip of his hands on my hips pulling me closer. I grabbed the front of his shirt and held on.
The kiss lasted long enough for me to forget the mission, the station, the conference, and every reason this was a terrible idea. I felt his hands shake against my waist, which told me he wasn’t in control of this any more than I was.
We broke apart. Breathing hard.
His forehead against mine. His hands still on my hips. I was still holding his shirt.
“That was a terrible idea,” he said.
“I know.”
“We can’t do this before the mission.”
“I know.”
“If I start this now, I won’t be able to stop.”
I let go of his shirt. Smoothed the wrinkled fabric. My hands were steadier than his.
“Then we finish the mission first,” I said. “And then you don’t stop.”
“That’s a promise,” he said.
“Yes. It is.”
I made myself step back. Sat down. Took a breath.
“When we dock, I go to registration. You go to the service levels. Check-ins every four hours.”
“Two.”
“Four. Two is conspicuous. If I’m ducking out every two hours, someone will notice.”
“Three.”