Zargo loomed over me. “You and stairs clearly don’t get along,” he chuckled. And just like that, the sarcastic jerk was back! Seriously, how could anyone fall for a guy like him? What on earth was Morana even thinking? Zargo extended a hand. I scrambled up, but the moment I tried to put weight on my leg, a sharp spike of agony shot through my knee. My balance completely failed, and I tumbled right into him. His eyes went wide as he caught me. I immediately bent down and rubbed my kneecap. “Did you hurt yourself?” Leaning against him felt embarrassingly nice, but I didn't want to overstay my welcome, so I limped toward the sofa. Zargo supported me, guided me onto the cushions, and unceremoniously dropped to the floor beside me. Our positions had suddenly inverted, and it made me incredibly self-conscious. Seriously, what is wrong with me?! Zargo began examining my knee with practiced expertise. I winced and let out a couple of sharp squeaks. “Looks like you just managed to get a nasty bruise. The bones and ligaments seem fine.” I flexed my leg just in case. It throbbed a bit, but it moved, so Zargo was right—nothing catastrophic had happened. Still, a major problem remained: I doubted I’d be able to climb up to the second floor tonight. I threw a tragic look toward the stairs. Zargo simply shook his head, slid his arms beneath me, and scooped me up. I fully expected that in a sudden fit of unprecedented kindness, he was carrying me upstairs, but instead, he marched straight into his own quarters and settled me onto his bed. My brain completely short-circuited. My thoughts scrambled into such a mess that I couldn't even articulate a single question. Zargo stepped out, only to return a couple of minutes later with an ice pack wrapped in a towel. “Apply this so it doesn't swell up. Should we call a doctor?” “For a simple bruise?” I scoffed and took the ice from him. I could vividly picture what the on-call doctor would think of us: out of all the races, human women have the most fragile bodies. A Dakara female wouldn't have even noticed a fall like that. Meanwhile, here I was, treating a minor swelling with a cold compress. Applying some ointment would have been ideal, true, but I was afraid that in the doctor's eyes, Zargo would look like an overly dramatic, paranoid husband. And God knows how people love to gossip. “Look, I can go up to your room and grab some of your clothes, or I can just give you one of my t-shirts. Your choice.” I instantly conjured a vivid, horrifying image of Zargo sorting through my wardrobe and digging into undergarments that were absolutely not meant for a man's eyes. The mental shopping list for my future wardrobe grew significantly longer right then and there. “I’ll take the t-shirt,” I said, opting for the lesser of two evils. Zargo seamlessly opened his wardrobe—which proved to be packed to the brim—and pulled out the first garment within reach. Examining the offered item, I realized the guy was obsessed with unusual clothes defined by strategic cutouts in the most unpredictable places. The cold reality slowly began to sink in: I was officially spending the night in this room, with the sofa being my only alternative. The catch was that I hadn't heard a single word about where he intended to sleep. While Zargo stayed out in the living room, I quickly changed and stared gloomily at my knee. The swelling had broken through a bit, and the bruise was going to be legendary. It would have been the perfect time to order some medical salve for a pre-dawn delivery, except my comlink was still marooned out in the lounge. I felt way too shy to ask Zargo to fetch it for me, and I had a shift to log tomorrow. I could only hope it would heal by itself. Zargo lingered in the living room for an agonizingly long time. I was losing my mind, wondering what he was doing out there. Had he actually gone to sleep in my room? Well, I suppose that was a fair trade: I’m in his, he’s in mine. Perfectly balanced. I dreamed I was caught in a vice. Pinned from all sides, completely unable to move. Opening my eyes didn't change the situation. Blinking into the dim light, I found myself staring at sleek, ashen skin with a faint blue luster. My sleep-addled brain worked with agonizing slowness, so it took me a moment to piece together my current predicament: Zargo hadn't gone upstairs to sleep at all. He had returned to his own bed, and now he was hugging me tightly, his heavy frame partially pinning me down. Shifting my weight, I tried to smoothly slide out of his embrace. When that failed completely, I let out a weary sigh of utter resignation. My destiny was an absolute joke—I kept waking up tangled with a remarkably attractive man without a single shred of actual romance between us. Was I seriously doomed to be the ultimate eternal friend? I recalled a notorious couple back at our academy. The guy used to chase anything that moved like a tomcat in March, yet he constantly dumped all his emotional drama and relationship issues on his female friend. I used to stare at them in total bewilderment: how could he remain completely blind to the fact that she was desperately in love with him? As that final thought cleared my mind, it triggered a wave of internal panic. If my brain was already running those kinds of comparisons, I was exactly two steps away from falling for the guy myself. And that was a disaster I absolutely could not allow! Falling in love with my boss, who was guaranteed to start a relationship with someone else any day now? How would I face him at work after that? I didn't even have the money to terminate my contract and quit! Steeling my nerves, I put more effort into it this time and managed to force a shift in our positions. The maneuver backfired spectacularly: Zargo simply slid his arm beneath my t-shirt, locked his grip around my bare waist, and buried his face directly into the curve of my neck, letting out a soft, rhythmic snore. A violent wave of goosecrumbs exploded across my skin, and I froze like a mouse under a broom. The realization that my free hand was completely unpinned and perfectly positioned to shake him awake didn't even cross my mind. Zargo's eyes cracked open, narrowing as he glared at me—before he simply squeezed me tighter and buried himself back into the mattress. My jaw literally dropped at the sheer audacity of it. Maybe his brain was completely offline due to exhaustion? Mornings are notorious for that. I gave his shoulder a firm shake. Zargo’s eyes opened again, and he hoisted his upper torso slightly to level a direct stare at my face. The proximity was deeply unsettling. His behavior was matching the exact script of a cheesy daytime melodrama: “And in the morning, they woke up together.” “I want to get up,” I hinted pointedly. “Why?” Zargo dropped right back down against my side, pulling me close and stretching luxuriously. His question threw me into a total loop. I found myself completely disarmed. Honestly... why? What reason did I have to object? “We need to get ready for work.” That was the solitary, uninspired argument my brain could muster. For some inexplicable reason, I couldn't summon a single ounce of righteous indignation, let alone physically push him away. “Right. Work,” Zargo sighed, finally releasing his grip and sitting up to rub his face with his hands. The man looked a long way from fully rested. I, conversely, felt perfectly fine; even my knee barely throbbed. “You crashed out fast last night, and your delivery arrived.” Zargo gestured toward the bags standing on the table by the window before disappearing behind the privacy screen, where the shower awaited. I stared longingly after him; my own hygiene required immediate attention. Shaking off the inertia, I took a few experimental steps. The bruises didn't cause any real discomfort unless I pressed directly on them. Checking the bags, I verified that they had delivered everything I ordered. That eliminated any need to go upstairs to get ready for work. Assuming, of course, I could secure clearance from Zargo to use his shower cabin. Honestly, I had already overdrawn my allowance on his hospitality for one weekend. Zargo’s shower routine proved remarkably brief; he emerged from behind the screen draped in nothing but a single towel. I frantically averted my eyes, desperately hunting for a single spot on the wall to anchor my focus. The tactical scan failed; my gaze kept tracking right back to him. “I brought your things. They're over there.” Mysterious. I locked eyes with him, waiting for an explanation, but the man simply pulled a pair of pants out of his wardrobe, forcing an immediate, panicked retreat behind the screen on my part. Sibians clearly didn't suffer from basic modesty, but my human filters were working overtime. The shower matrix in this master bedroom was an exact mirror copy of my upper unit. The exact same console layout for hygiene products. Even the toothbrush cup matched down to the millimeter. Looking closer, however, I spotted a secondary cup occupying the adjacent shelf. The reality clicked instantly: the jerk had gone to my room and taken my toothbrush. Wait, what else had his hands targeted? A closer inspection revealed a basket packed with my specific skincare gels, creams, and shampoos. A massive sigh of relief escaped my throat; the man hadn't possessed the absolute audacity to rifle through my undergarment drawer. I verified every storage slot regardless, just to be absolutely sure. Throwing a highly suspicious look toward the open archway—the setup lacked a physical door panel—I stripped down and executed a lightning-fast shower. After that, I changed into my brand-new clothes and headed to the kitchen. Zargo had transitioned into yet another creation of some unknown designer. The shirt resembled a raw pattern template that, instead of being properly stitched together, was held across his frame by a network of delicate metallic chains and rivets. Yet, the entire chaotic nightmare looked incredibly organic on him—punctuated beautifully by a sharp, diagonal slash running from his left hip straight to his right shoulder. He had already managed to brew a fresh pot of coffee, leaving me to quickly assemble a few sandwiches. Time was running out, and there was no room for an elaborate breakfast. We still sat down at the same table. My eyes kept cutting toward the front door. Zargo tracked the movement, his silver eyebrow arching in a silent inquiry. “I’m just wondering if Morana is actively staking out our porch,” I admitted. “She needs to confirm somehow that the woman she saw last night was me.” “That's unnecessary. I thought about your words and decided you were right.” “Really?” It was a bit jarring to hear him not only process my feedback, but openly validate my perspective. Now I just needed to decode which specific segment of my midnight monologue his brain had targeted. I had zero doubt the man had systematically dissected my words into distinct categories. “Yes. A pilot will be arriving shortly to collect us.” “Collect us?” I echoed. “Correct. I’ve decided you were right. It’s all because I don’t clearly define my position.” “And your brilliant solution is to define it using me?!” A wave of pure anger crashed through me. My professional relationship with my coworkers had just started to improve, and now he was going to drop this tactical bomb on my office reputation! “I like you: you’re smart, calm, and beautiful. Furthermore, your presence within my home matches my comfort parameters perfectly. Consequently, I see zero reasons not to define my position.” Well, that was certainly a unique romantic declaration. I was fairly confident no romance novel in the galaxy had ever formatted a confession quite like that. “Did it ever occur to you to ask for my consent first?!” “That is precisely what I am doing right now,” he replied smoothly. I had a fierce urge to slam my forehead directly into the kitchen table. Still, I needed to make allowances for the reality that the guy wasn't human. In Sibian culture, the exact qualities he had just listed comprised an airtight legal foundation for a marriage alliance. But my human biology required actual emotional resonance, courtship, and organic feelings. “Are you targeting me because you value my identity as an individual, or are you simply looking for a convenient domestic cohabitant?” “I like you from every perspective.” “I require a window to run those calculations,” I countered, trying to buy time. “I refuse to rush this process, and I absolutely refuse to broadcast our personal connection to the facility. My standing with the team is barely stabilizing as it is.” If the man failed to compute the weight of that concern, he was fundamentally the wrong partner for me. I hadn't pulverized my cognitive limits studying like a maniac at the academy just to be relegated to a domestic housewife status, clocking permanent kitchen duty. Furthermore, I still lacked sufficient data to verify if our long-term personalities were even compatible. Though... I had to admit, sharing his residential grid was remarkably comfortable. It was almost endearing how thoroughly chaotic and messy his domestic persona turned out to be. Surviving next to a rigid, hyper-focused Senior Tan who exclusively spoke in scientific jargon and maintained a cold professional distance would have been an absolute nightmare. “Understood,” Zargo conceded. “I validate your independent status and your requirement to process a transition of this magnitude.” Fucking aliens! Instead of executing a classic romantic move—hauling me into his arms, delivering a sweeping declaration of passion, and kissing me senseless—the man was treating a relationship like a corporate merger. Analyze the mutual asset dividends of our union, basically. And he had laid out his operational criteria like a true director. “Consequently,” I summarized, narrowing my eyes, “I am routing my transit to the station via the standard civilian commuter shuttle, while you execute your departure via your private craft.” Zargo’s eyes crinkled at the corners, a brilliant flash of genuine amusement dancing in his optics. “You are a truly legendary coward, Astra,” he laughed, his voice warm. “It’s highly entertaining. We will proceed precisely according to your operational parameters.” Flashing a genuine, warm smile, he cleared the counter and boarded his arriving shuttle. Tracking his ship until it cleared the atmosphere, I initiated my own pre-shift routine. Before breaching the exterior threshold, I ran a careful audit of the porch camera feed. The civilian perimeter looked entirely clear. Still, a heavy knot of anxiety remained tightly coiled in my stomach. Morana was guaranteed to be boarding that exact same commuter shuttle.