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I tuck the package under my arm and follow her. She limps towards the bar where she grabs a half-full tumbler of whiskey with her good hand, then walks haltingly to one of the chairs in the center of the room.

My jaw tightens as I resist the urge to sweep her into my arms and deposit her into bed. Make her rest as I wait on her, providing her with everything she needs.

Resist I must, for this is not my role in her life. I bite my tongue and stick to why I have come.

I take the seat across from her, our gazes locked onto each other. That look of loathing has not completely left her face, but the air is thick with all that is going unsaid between us, our pheromones doing the heavy lifting in this conversation.

She takes a sip of her drink, then finally purses her lips. “I suppose I should thank you for saving my life.”

I blink. Her tone is a spindly mashup of conflicting emotions I do not know how to interpret, so I stick to facts. “I do not need thanks. Anyone would have done the same. I came to bring you this.”

I pull the pot out of the bag and hand it to her.

It is not particularly elegant. An old clay pot painted with nonsensical designs. When our timetable got moved up, we had to hustle for the last of our supplies. Not everything acquired was spaceship grade. This piece found its way to my suite in hopes I might pot some small bit of organic life to share my space. Of course I never found the time, but it seems as though that may have been for a reason.

I am overcome with the need to gift it to Azalea. A woman who risks her life to save a tree is a woman who likely values things made of the earth. I have no logical reason to try and win her favor, and yet I feel strangely compelled to bring some small joy to her life, in whatever way I can.

She runs her hand over the pot, studying it from each angle. “This is for me?” Her voice is an emotion-filled whisper, her eyes shining.

“For your tree. The one we almost died for. Let our near-sacrifice not be in vain. Long live your tree.”

Her laughter is brief and bell-like, and I enjoy the way her face lights up, even if only for a moment. She hugs the pot to her chest. “Thanks. That’s kind of you.”

“I also brought soil.” I set the bag by her chair. “Let me know if you need anything else. I hope to see it planted on Mars someday.”

A tear spills down her cheek and I resist the urge to reach out and touch her. Offer comfort. Wipe her tears away. “I… apologize if I have upset you.”

She glances at me, sniffs, then balances the pot on her lap as she reaches for her drink, emptying it on one long gulp. There is a pregnant pause as she focuses on the bottom of her glass. I should be leaving. I have done what I intended, and I’m falling further behind schedule with every passing second. I should already be on the second level getting status reports from our crew. Even if I were not so occupied, I should not be in another man’s room drinking alcohol with the woman the algorithm chose for him.

But I do not stand and leave.

Status reports can wait.

I do not want to walk away from Dr. Azalea Clark just yet.

I will leave if she asks me to, of course, but I cannot force myself to leave of my own volition.

“You haven’t upset me,” she says with an exhale. “You’ve surprised me, actually. I didn’t expect this from you. And it brought back some bittersweet memories I’ve been trying not to think too much about.”

Her simple, honest statement is intoxicating to me. I want more. I want to hear everything. I want her to bear everything—body and soul. “If you… wish to share the memories, I am told I am a good listener.”

Her eyes study my face briefly, then she places the pot to the side of her chair, stands and moves toward the bar. Each inch she puts between us enhances my longing. She opens the whiskey bottle with her good hand, and I take in her physical form while she faces away. She has changed into shorts since the accident on the bridge to accommodate her bandages. Long, smooth legs descend from an hourglass form. Her soft curves are a temptation I must withstand if I wish to be in her presence without crossing lines that cannot be crossed. Not now. Not ever.

“Did you want a drink?” she asks. It is all I want, to stay and drink with her, then let the inebriation take control and see what happens next.

“Thank you, but no,” I answer, denying my own wishes. “Too many tasks that I shall need my wits for. A raincheck, perhaps.”

Azalea returns to her seat and gingerly tucks her uninjured leg under her, wincing when she puts a little bit of weight on her sore arm. Once situated, her bandaged ankle propped on an ottoman, she takes a sip, then studies me a moment, her head cocked, her eyes bright. “Do you want to know a secret?” she asks.

Intrigued, I nod. She wets her lips before speaking, and I can tell the drink has her opening up, but still of sound mind.

“I didn’t enter The Lottery on purpose,” she says.

I frown and lean forward. “How then?”

She smiles softly, her thoughts clearly in the past. “My grandmother entered me. I had no idea she was doing it.”

I shake my head. “That seems unlikely. The system had safeguards to prevent impersonation and other types of fraud.”