A few hours later the three of us sat in one of the Steadfast’s smaller briefing rooms. The ship still smelled new. Yeleth stood at the head of the table with a datapad. Saya sat opposite me in the dark Steadfast uniform, spine straight, black hair in its high ponytail.

“The post-bonding diagnostics are complete,” Yeleth said. “Warden Voss’s Weave output increased, but the amplification is significantly lower than the baseline with Warden Ashworth.”

Saya’s eyes narrowed. “Quantify ‘significantly.’”

“Approximately forty percent of the earlier peak. Physical intimacy initiates the surge. The magnitude correlates with emotional attachment. In Warden Ashworth’s case it was already extensive. In yours it is still transactional.”

Saya was quiet for a moment. “So the solution is simply to fall in love with him.”

“That is the current working theory.”

I looked at her. A faint color had started along her cheekbones.

“Do you actually know what that means?” I asked. “Have you ever been in love before?”

The color deepened. Her gaze flicked away, then locked back on mine.

“No.”

I let the silence sit, then offered the only thing that felt honest.

“Then we take it slow. No pressure. Just spend time. There’s a leisure section on this ship—cafés, gardens. We could start with a date. Something simple.”

Saya considered it, then gave a short nod. “Acceptable. Schedule it.”

Twenty minutes later I was standing in front of the open locker in my quarters, staring at the civilian clothes Priya’s people had stocked, when the door slid open.

Maren stepped in, already out of uniform in a soft green shirt and dark pants, auburn hair loose. She looked at the stiff formal shirt in my hands and raised an eyebrow.

“What’s this?”

“Trying to figure out what people wear on dates.”

“Saya?”

“Yeah. Yeleth’s theory is the boost scales with actual attachment. She doesn’t have any reference for it, so I suggested a date. She agreed.”

Maren was quiet for a long moment. Then she crossed her arms.

“You owe me one first.”

It wasn’t a request.

I nodded. “Okay.”

“Heel & Crust. Level One. One hour. Don’t be late, and don’t wear whatever that is.” She flicked a hand at the formal shirt. “I want the version of you that still remembers how to sit on a crate and talk.”

Then she was gone.

Heel & Crust smelled like real yeast and butter. Warm light, wooden counters, a few off-duty crew at corner tables. Maren had claimed a small booth near the back, a fresh loaf already on the board. She wore a soft cream sweater and was breaking the heel off the loaf when I slid into the seat across from her.

“You’re late,” she said, the corner of her mouth already lifting.

“By three minutes.”

“Still late.” She pushed the heel toward me, then stole it back with a quick grin. “Mine. You can have the next one.”

I laughed, quiet. The tight coil in my chest loosened a little. Outside, the Concourse’s painted sky was darkening. Inside it was just the two of us and warm bread.

Maren tore a piece of the soft center, buttered it, and slid it across to me. Her amber-brown eyes stayed on my face.

“So,” she said. “We’re doing this properly now.”

“Yeah,” I answered. “We are.”