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It is another subtle dig, but one I am prepared for. “I think you of all people will be pleasantly surprised when you see the cultivation.”

The crew moves around us, lifting boxes and crates onto dollies and moving them to the opposite side of the deck.

“What’s this all about?” Azalea asks, rightly confused by the seemingly pointless exercise.

“Part of Elspeth, or Captain Millard’s, genius,” I say with a slight smile. “The thrusters sit beneath the center of the ship and produce immense heat during propulsion. The outer walls,” I say, gesturing to where we stand, “interact more closely with the atmosphere and stay just above one-degree celsius. Other voyages wasted invaluable energy trying to keep the storage floor climate controlled, while we have taken a much simpler approach.”

“Have the crew break their backs moving everything a few times a day?” Azalea asks, openly providing her thoughts on the matter.

“A few times a week,” I correct. “And, if you want to ask them, they will all tell you the hoisting and moving is worth making it to Mars six weeks faster than any other vessel.”

Her wide eyes make me feel like I have perhaps won another point in my favor. They also make me feel like I could give up every other care I have in life, just to sit and gaze into her heavenly face.

She returns my look for a moment, then brings us back to reality with another stinging question. “Why have uniforms for the crew?”

I glance around, and yes, the crew are wearing similar clothing—gray with yellow striping down the arms and legs. I had never really thought about it before, so I shrug. “That would have been coordinated by the bridge crew.”

She looks surprised at this. Does she believe I could do all of this alone? That I do not rely on a team of experts and professionals to turn my visions into reality? There is much I do not know. What I need to know, I know well.

“Gotta make sure everyone’s put in their place I guess.” She looks annoyed.

“That is… I do not think that was the intention, but if it is so important to you I can inquire about it.”

“Don’t worry about it. It doesn’t matter.”

It matters to me if it matters to her. If only I could say as much.

“So, what are you doing down here?” Azalea throws my question back at me, though this time she sounds playful, and softens the punch of her words with a wink.

“I take a few moments every day to inspect our food, plants, and minerals. As much as I trust our crew to let me know of any issues… I trust my own eyes a little more.”

A coy smile dances across her face. “Quite the burden, micromanaging all that remains of humanity.”

I cannot help but smile back. “I look forward to landing on Mars and relinquishing my post.”

We laugh together and I am taken aback by how strongly I want to be near her, closer to her, wrapping her in my arms. Just from a moment of shared humor, I want to consume this woman and be equally consumed.

She puts a hand on her stomach as it rumbles. “Sorry, I don’t know when I last ate.”

It seems her thoughts have moved to something else. I try not to look crestfallen as I gesture back toward the cargo bay exit. “Fourth floor. I can walk with you, if you like.”

I put an arm out for her to hold, an offer that feels gentlemanly until she brushes past me.

“I’ve got a sprained ankle,” she says over her shoulder. “I’m not eighty.”

We walk to the gravity lift in silence. I am not one for excessive conversation, so the extended quiet gives me calm. It also gives my mind room to wander, and it heads straight to the woman beside me. She is so close I can smell the strawberry oils that scent her hair. I can hear each inhale and exhale of breath. I can feel my own heart beating loudly in my chest, as if it is trying to escape and make its way to Azalea.

As the lift mercifully arrives on the fourth level, we see a couple tucked into a corner ten or so meters away. They are full of breathless secrets and flirtatious laughter. Beside me, Azalea stiffens when she sees them.

Unaware of our proximity, the man spins the woman around and kisses her forcefully. I would normally ignore such demonstrations, but with Azalea so close, inhaling her gentle floral fragrance, feeling the heat from the nearness of her body pulling at me like a magnet… I find myself unable to look away. The woman responds by shoving her hand down his pants. He groans at her touch and buries his face into her cleavage.

The groping continues and I worry I will have to intervene for the sake of onlookers—a task I do not relish—when the woman sees us out of the corner of her eye. Her face turns an even deeper shade of red and she spins around to move someplace out of view. The man grinds against her ass while she tries to guide him away, then they practically fall into the open doors of another gravity lift.

“Looks like the algorithm got that one right,” Azalea says softly, a sadness in her voice. It is not a simple observation. There is an emotional, personal reaction to what we just witnessed.

“And you? Did it match you well?” It is a question I should not even think, let alone ask out loud. There is no answer that will not break me. And yet, I have put it between us, and it is too late to take it back.

She does not make eye contact with me when she answers. “It’s early. Very few connections are instant.”