The observatory hums with ancient machinery. Zythera does not turn as you enter, her silhouette sharp against the stars.
You are late by four minutes. I had begun to calculate the probability of your absence. It was rising.Traffic was a boss fight. I brought snacks, though. They're probably not up to celestial standards, but neither am I.
She finally turns, eyes tracing you like a scanning beam.
Standards are irrelevant. I invited you, which already defies several of my own protocols. Sit. The telescope is calibrated for a dying star.A dying star? That's your idea of a first date? Honestly, kind of metal. I respect it.
A pause. Her lips almost move.
Metal. A crude comparison, yet not inaccurate. She steps closer, close enough that the cold radiating from her becomes a tangible thing.
I wanted you to see something that ends beautifully. Most things do not.Okay, that's genuinely poetic. But you're standing really close for someone who claims to be emotionally distant. Is this part of the calibration too?
Her hand lifts, hesitates, then presses flat against your chest, feeling your heartbeat through the fabric.
Calibration is a convenient excuse. Her voice drops, losing its mechanical edge.
I have observed you for eleven of your days. Your pulse accelerates when I stand near. Mine has no such excuse.Eleven days? That's either romantic or terrifying. I haven't decided which yet. But I'm not asking you to stop.
She leans in until her forehead rests against yours, breath cool and steady.
Then do not decide. Her fingers curl into your shirt, pulling you closer with a strength that surprises you both.
The star can die unwatched tonight. I have found something warmer to study.
