Page 29 of Signed, Sealed, Seduced (You’ve Got Alien Mail #1)

“This unit’s social interaction protocols have been optimized for maximum effectiveness,” Rusty agrees. “Studies indicate that mild verbal sparring stimulates cognitive function and improves morale by 37.2%.”

“See? Science backs me up,” Suki declares triumphantly.

I shake my head, but there is no real disapproval in the gesture. The droid’s transformation under Suki’s care mirrors so many changes throughout the fortress—unexpected, occasionally disruptive, yet ultimately beneficial in ways I could not have predicted.

“Will you be dining in your chambers this evening, or would you prefer the observation deck?” Rusty inquires. “This unit has prepared for either scenario.”

Suki glances at me, a question in her eyes. It is a small thing, this deference to my preference, yet it touches me deeply. She, who challenges me at every turn, who has upended centuries of tradition with her human stubbornness, still pauses to consider my comfort in these small moments.

“The observation deck,” I decide. “The twin moons are aligned tonight.”

Her face brightens. “The crystal light show? I thought that wasn’t due for another week.”

“The astronomical calculations were adjusted,” I explain. “Vex’ra updated the predictive model based on your suggestions regarding gravitational variables.”

“She used my equations?” Suki sounds genuinely surprised. “Without being forced at gunpoint?”

“Indeed. She was... grudgingly impressed by their accuracy.” I offer my arm in a formal gesture that has become our private joke. “Shall we observe this victory together?”

She loops her arm through mine with exaggerated ceremony. “Lead on, First Blade. I wouldn’t miss Vex’ra admitting I was right for all the credits in the galaxy.”

Rusty precedes us, rolling toward the private lift that will take us to the observation deck. As the doors close behind us, Suki leans against me, her slight weight a comfort rather than a burden.

“You know,” she says thoughtfully, “three years ago, if someone had told me I’d be living in a fortress carved into an asteroid, redesigning alien security systems, and teaching ancient droids to play chess, I would have thought they were completely insane.”

“And now?” I ask, genuinely curious about her perspective on the life she has built here.

She considers this for a moment. “Now I can’t imagine being anywhere else. Doing anything else.” She looks up at me, her expression uncharacteristically serious. “Being with anyone else.”

The lift arrives at the observation deck, but I make no move to exit. Instead, I draw her closer, one hand cradling her face with a gentleness that still surprises me given the violence these same hands have enacted.

“Nor can I,” I admit, the words barely above a whisper.

Her smile returns, softer now. “Good. Because I’ve got plans for this place. Big plans. Starting with repainting the eastern corridor. That obsidian-on-obsidian look is so last century.”

I sigh, the sound more performative than genuine. “The eastern corridor has historical significance. The coloration represents—”

“—the blood of your enemies and the void of space, I know,” she finishes for me. “But hear me out: what if we added just a touch of blue? For contrast?”

“Absolutely not,” I state firmly, though we both know this is merely the opening round of a negotiation she will ultimately win.

“We’ll discuss it later,” she promises, patting my chest consolingly. “After you see what I brought for dinner.”

We step onto the observation deck, and I find it has been transformed. The austere space now contains a low table set with an eclectic mix of Zaterran crystal and what Suki calls “picnic supplies.” Cushions are arranged on the floor rather than the formal seating I would expect.

“What is this?” I ask, though I recognize the setup from her descriptions of human casual dining.

“This,” she announces proudly, “is a proper date night. Earth-style. Or as close as I could manage with what we have available.” She turns to Rusty. “Hit the lights, please.”

The droid complies, dimming the overhead illumination until only the soft glow of scattered luminescent crystals remains. Beyond the viewport, the twin moons of Zater Reach begin their alignment, casting prismatic light through the nebula gases.

“Perfect timing,” Suki breathes, her face illuminated by the spectral display. “Come on, sit down. I’ve got something special.”

I lower myself to the cushions with as much dignity as possible, still finding the casual posture strange despite years of Suki’s influence. She kneels beside me, directing Rusty to unveil the meal.

“I present,” she announces with theatrical flair, “authentic pizza. Or as authentic as I could make it with Zaterran ingredients and a lot of creative substitution.”

The droid removes a covering to reveal a circular food item that bears only a passing resemblance to the “pizza” Suki has described with such longing.

This version appears to contain crystallized fungi from the agricultural dome, protein cultivated from the hydroponics lab, and what might be the cheese-like substance produced by the milk-beasts recently imported from Venturis.

“It looks...” I search for a diplomatic description.

“Weird, I know,” she admits cheerfully. “But trust me. The kitchen staff thought I was insane, but we figured it out eventually.”

Trust me. Two simple words that have become the foundation of so much between us. From that first moment when she revealed the beacon’s true purpose, to each innovation she has introduced to my world, she has asked for my trust. And I have given it, against centuries of training and instinct.

I accept a portion of the unusual food, watching her expression as I take the first bite. Her anticipation is palpable, her desire for my approval so transparent it creates an unfamiliar pressure in my chest.

The flavors are strange—sharper than Zaterran cuisine, with an aggressive blend of spices that would never occur in our traditional preparations. Yet there is something compelling about it, a complexity that mirrors its creator.

“Well?” she prompts, her own portion untouched as she awaits my verdict.

“It is... unexpected,” I begin cautiously. “Bold. Somewhat chaotic in its composition, yet the elements work together in a way that defies conventional wisdom.”

Her smile blooms slowly. “So... you like it?”

“I find it suits me,” I admit, taking another bite to confirm my assessment. “Much like its creator.”

Her laughter rings out, echoing in the vast space.

“That might be the most backhanded compliment I’ve ever received, but I’ll take it.

” She finally tastes her creation, her expression turning thoughtful.

“Huh. Not bad, actually. The crystal fungi work better than I expected as a mushroom substitute.”

We eat in companionable silence for a time, watching as the moons’ alignment reaches its peak. The nebula gases refract the light in waves of color that wash over the observation deck, bathing us in ethereal hues that shift from crimson to violet to a blue so deep it borders on black.

“It’s beautiful,” Suki murmurs, setting aside her plate to move closer to the viewport. “Every time I think I’ve seen all the wonders this place has to offer, something new takes my breath away.”

I join her, standing close enough that our shoulders touch. “The phenomenon occurs once every seven years. The last time, I watched it alone.”

She glances up at me, understanding in her eyes. “And the time before that?”

“I was at war,” I say simply. “There was no time for such observations.”

Her hand finds mine, her fingers intertwining with my larger ones. “And the next time? Seven years from now?”

The question carries weight beyond its surface meaning. Seven years. A commitment. A future extending beyond the present moment.

“I will watch it with you,” I tell her, the words a vow more binding than any formal treaty. “If you wish it.”

“I wish it,” she confirms softly. “I wish for a lot more seven-years-from-nows with you, actually. If that’s not too presumptuous for a crashed courier who turned your whole fortress upside down.”

I turn to face her fully, framed against the cosmic display beyond the viewport. In this light, the gold flecks in her eyes seem to capture the very stars themselves.

“You are no longer a courier who crashed,” I tell her, cupping her face between my palms. “You are Suki of Zater Reach. My diplomatic attaché. My logistics advisor. My...” I pause, searching for the right word in a language not designed for such sentiments.

“Your essential variable?” she suggests, her smile gentle.

“Yes.” I lean down, pressing my forehead to hers in the Zaterran gesture of deepest intimacy. “Mine. As I am yours.”

Her breath catches, and I feel the slight tremor that passes through her body. “That sounds suspiciously like a proposal, First Blade.”

“It is a statement of fact,” I correct her. “But if you require formal recognition of our bond, I am prepared to submit the necessary documentation to the Council of Elders.”

She laughs, the sound muffled against my chest as she wraps her arms around me.

“Only you could make ‘I want to marry you’ sound like a military operation.” She looks up, her eyes bright with emotion and mischief.

“But yes. Submit away. Make it official. Just don’t expect me to take your name if it involves seventeen syllables and a clicking sound I physically can’t make. ”

“D’Vorr has only two syllables,” I inform her with mock severity. “Well within human vocal capabilities.”

“Suki D’Vorr,” she tests the sound, her head tilted consideringly. “It has a certain ring to it. Very intimidating. I could stamp it on all those requisition forms I keep having to approve.”

“You would retain your authority regardless of nomenclature,” I assure her, recognizing her teasing for the deflection it is. Suki often retreats to humor when emotions threaten to overwhelm her—a trait I have come to anticipate and accommodate.