Chương 20: Chapter 19

"I'm bigger." Mila crosses her arms under her bust, radiating confidence. The small cabin, intended to sleep six, is still a bit cramped with three occupants, but cozy in a way she's grown to appreciate. Jodie sits on the edge of her bunk across from her, while Stella perches primly on the fold-out chair by the tiny desk. All of them are stripped down for their little competition, with more bare fur than clothing.

"Biggest don't mean best," Jodie fires back, her ears flattening. She looks down at herself with a frown.

"And I ain't small, neither. I'm proportional."

"Proportional?" Mila giggles, perhaps a little meaner than intended.

"Jodie, I've seen yours. Real cute, but let's not kid ourselves here." The coyote's hackles rise.

"Cute?! Girl, I will end you."

"Ladies, please." Stella raises a delicate hand, her expression serene in a way that immediately puts Mila on guard. The skunk's violet eyes hold a glint of mischief that seems out of place on her usually reserved face.

"I hate to interrupt this spirited debate, but I believe you're both overlooking the obvious winner." Mila and Jodie exchange glances.

"Oh?" Mila prompts, one eyebrow arched. Stella smiles, slow and smug.

"I'm larger than both of you combined. And softer, too."

"Now hold on just a minute," Jodie sputters.

"Don't give us that," Mila says flatly.

"There's no way." In response, Stella simply shifts her posture, letting her massive plume of a tail fan out behind her. The purple and white fur cascades over the chair's edge like a waterfall, impossibly, and undeniably fluffy. Then Stella lets her fur puff up, and the skunk's tail almost doubles in size. Mila's mouth opens. Then closes. Then opens again.

'Okay. That's... that's a lot of tail.' Jodie just glares, clutching her own brown and tan tail.

"You may be amazed," Stella sniffs, running her fingers through the fur with obvious satisfaction. She tilts her head, the picture of false innocence.

"I believe you were saying something about yours being the biggest, Mila?" Mila glances down at her own tail, currently curled around her thigh. Her poofy pride and joy, groomed daily and treated with the best conditioners she can get out here in the boonies. Why, in both high school and college, boys would stare at it as often as they did her butt! It… looks like a bottlebrush next to Stella's.

"W-well," Mila huffs, grasping for a foothold, "... size isn't everything. Mine's softer."

"Is it?" Stella's smile doesn't waver.

"Yes. It is." Mila juts her chin out stubbornly.

"Mink fur is the softest in the galaxy! Everyone knows that. You can look it up." Jodie rolls her eyes.

"Not this again."

"It's true! There's a reason a mink could make a killing selling her shed for coats before synthetic garbage came along!" Mila's tail lashes behind her, undermining her attempt at dignity.

"Stella's might be bigger, but mine is premium quality fur. Pre-mi-um! Here, feel it!" She says, standing and turning her tail to the skunk.

"Goodness," Stella covers her mouth, not really hiding her smirk.

"Asking another woman to feel your tail? What would your beloved captain think?" Mila rolls her eyes.

"Oh please, guys fantasize about girl-on-girl tail fluffing all the time. Plus, every girl did it in college at least once."

"Well, considering I never even went to college…" Jodie is quick to poke a hole into Mila's argument. The mink ignores her for a moment, instead focusing on Stella.

"Well?" Stella clears her throat and smooths her own tail over, returning it back to a reasonable volume.

"Okay, perhaps once with the aid of a smuggled bottle of solvarka reserve."

"Got-dang, where did you get a bottle of solvarka?" Jodie asks, eyes wide much like Mila's. Stella shrugs.

"It wasn't mine. Naturally, the school administrators didn't want mind-altering substances on the premises of a psychic institution, so when alcohol did make it in, it was usually quality."

"I don't think I'd have it in me to drink a factory-new fighter's worth of booze," Jodie shakes her head, grimacing like the thought physically hurts.

"Gimme a bum rum and collie anyday."

"Mixing a strong drink, I can understand, but something as droll as rum and cola?" Stella's nose wrinkles.

"Well excuse me, miss fancy!" Mila grins as she watches Jodie and Stella get into it yet again. Stella has been on the Aquila for, what, two weeks? And already she's comfortable enough to argue with the unofficial 2nd officer of the ship. Without warning, the intercom in the ceiling chirps, cutting Mila's thoughts off.

"Pilot Minks," Nidhogg's voice filters through the speaker, flat and mechanical.

"Captain Trigger requests your presence in his quarters." The bickering dies instantly. Mila blinks.

"Uh... right now?"

"Affirmative. He is waiting." Mila's heart stutters in her chest.

"I... yeah. Okay. Tell him I'll be right there."

"Acknowledged." The intercom clicks off, leaving silence in its wake. Jodie and Stella are both staring at her. Jodie's eyebrows have climbed halfway up her forehead, and even Stella's composure has cracked into open curiosity.

"Huh," Jodie drawls, a frown dragging her muzzle down.

"Okay, what did you do? Is somethin' broken? Because if it is, it's waitin' till morning before I look at it."

"I didn't break anything!" Mila exclaims, already moving to the small dresser bolted to the wall. She yanks open a drawer and pulls out the first pair of sweatpants she finds, hopping into them with more urgency than grace, and nearly tripping for it.

"It's probably just... I don't know. Fighter stuff."

"Maybe, maybe," Jodie sniffs.

"If you did anything funny in the VR pods and that's why Trigger is calling you..." she lets her words hang.

"Ech! No!" Mila tugs at her shirt, a worn old thing with a faded Moonbeam Mink graphic on the front. It's wrinkled and she's pretty sure there's a small tear near the hem, but it'll have to do. She smooths down the fabric anyway, then catches herself and feels her cheeks flush.

'Why am I fussing? It's just Trigger.' But even as the thought forms, her mind drifts back to yesterday. The rec room. The couch. His lap beneath her, solid and warm. The way his arm had wrapped around her waist like it belonged there, pulling her closer without hesitation. How he'd leaned into her, just slightly, chasing her scent without even seeming to realize he was doing it. And then, when she'd come back from helping Stella, he'd opened his arms for her. Mila's tail poofs involuntarily.

'Oh geez...' Is this it? Is this going to be The Big Confession? The thought sends a jolt of electricity through her entire body. Her pulse kicks into overdrive, and suddenly the cabin feels about ten degrees warmer. Trigger doesn't summon people to his quarters. That's not how he operates. When he needs to address the crew, he does it on the bridge. When he has something to say to someone specific, he comes to them.

Mila's hands tremble slightly as she runs her fingers through her hair, trying to tame the worst of the tangles. A giddy, bubbly feeling rises in her chest, the kind she hasn't felt since she was a teenager with her first crush on Fox McCloud.

'Oh my gosh, this is finally it. He's finally going to say something!' She catches her reflection in the small mirror mounted on the wall and pauses. Sweatpants. Ratty shirt. Fur slightly mussed from lounging around. A naughty thought slithers through her mind.

'Should I change into something else? Something... nicer?' Because surely The Big Confession leads to other things, right? That's how it works in all the romance holos. The dramatic declaration of feelings, the passionate embrace, and then... Her face burns hot enough to fry an egg, but her grin won't go away.

'No. No no no. Don't get ahead of yourself, Mila. You don't even know for sure that's what this is about.' But what else could it be?

"You gonna stand there staring at yourself all night?" Jodie's voice cuts through her spiral.

"Or are you gonna go see what the man wants?" Mila shakes herself, forcing her legs to move.

"Right. Yeah. I'm going." She pauses at the door, glancing back at the other two women. Jodie just watches. Stella, however, offers a small, awkward smile.

"Good luck," the skunk says. Mila waves, not trusting her voice, and slips out into the corridor. The walk to Trigger's quarters isn't long. The Aquila is a small ship, and she's made this trip dozens of times before, usually to drag him away from work or to watch shows curled up on his bed. But tonight, the familiar corridor feels different. Longer. The hum of the ship's systems seems louder, the recycled air cooler against her flushed fur.

Her mind whirls with possibilities, fantasies, half-formed scenarios that make her ears (and other places) burn.

'What do I even say? Do I let him talk first? What if I'm wrong and this is actually about something else entirely and I make a complete dunce of myself? What if - Oh shit, I'm here.' She reaches his door far too quickly. For a moment, Mila just stands there, heart hammering against her ribs. She takes a breath, then another.

'Okay. You can do this. Whatever happens, you can handle it.' She knocks twice, quick and sharp, then palms the door release before she can lose her nerve. The door hisses open. Trigger sits on the edge of his bed, hands resting on his knees. His posture is straight, controlled, the same rigid discipline he brings to everything, but his eyes... Mila freezes mid-step, just barely past the threshold. Humans, she's learned, are nightmares to read if they aren't blunt.

Or at least she thinks so, since she only has a sample size of one. Their ears don't swivel to betray their moods. Their flat, muzzle-less faces keep their expressions subtle and strange. No tails to speak of, nothing to give away what's happening beneath the surface. Trigger, with his flat voice and stony face, takes that to an extreme. But, Mila likes to think she's gotten pretty good at reading him over the past months.

The micro-expressions, the slight shifts in posture, the way his jaw tightens when he's frustrated or how his eyes soften just a fraction when something amuses him, she's been carefully watching to see what might be going on in that noggin of his. That's why the look he's giving her now hits like a laserbolt to the gut. Raw, undisguised vulnerability stares back at her from those dark eyes. He looks like a man standing on the edge of a cliff, steeling himself to jump.

The door hisses shut behind her, and Mila realizes she's forgotten how to breathe.

"T-Trigger? What's wrong?" she forces out. She watches as something shifts behind his eyes. The vulnerability doesn't vanish, but it hardens, crystallizes into something harder, sharper, dangerous to touch. His mouth draws itself into a thin line, and when he speaks, his voice is steady, but forced.

"Sit down, Mila." He pats the space beside him on the bed. The giddy anticipation from moments ago curdles into something closer to worry. This isn't how confessions are supposed to go, is it? In the holos, there's music swelling in the background, longing gazes, maybe some rain for dramatic effect before the big kiss. Not this tense, coiled energy radiating off him like heat from an overtaxed reactor. Mila crosses the small room on legs that are strangely unsteady and lowers herself onto the mattress beside him.

The bed dips slightly under her weight, and she's painfully aware of how close they are, like static in her fur. Trigger stares straight ahead for a long moment, his profile sharp in the dim lighting of his quarters. She can see the gears turning behind his eyes, watch him arrange and rearrange whatever he's about to say. Once or twice, his mouth starts to move, only to stop. The silence stretches. Ten seconds. Twenty. A full minute. God, the suspense is making her fur stand on end. Finally, he speaks.

"It's come to my attention," he begins, each word measured and deliberate, "that you might have feelings for me. Romantic feelings." Mila's heart lurches into her throat. He turns to look at her then, those dark eyes studying her face with an intensity that makes her want to squirm. It's the same look he gets when he's analyzing tactical data or puzzling through a mechanical problem. A problem… Oh…

"Mila," he begins severely.

"I…" Oh no. No no no no no…

'He can't…' The mink tries to stop herself from shaking as everything begins to fall apart around her.

'No, he isn't about to… To tell me that… that…' She gulps, and inwardly, prays.

'That he doesn't love me back. That I should leave the team because I'm a distraction. That -'"... I want to know why." Mila blinks, the ice in her veins stymied for a moment. Of all the things she'd imagined him saying, that wasn't one of them. Part of her is stunned by the sheer bluntness of it. No preamble, no easing into the topic, just a direct statement followed by a direct question. She shouldn't be surprised. This is Trigger, after all.

Another part of her is flustered, her cheeks growing hot as the reality sinks in that he knows. He finally knows, and now she's sitting here in her ratty anime shirt and hastily pulled-on sweatpants, completely unprepared for this conversation. But mostly, she's just confused.

"What do you mean, 'why'?" she asks, her brow furrowing. Trigger's jaw tightens. It's subtle, barely a twitch of muscle, but she's learned to read those tiny shifts.

"I mean exactly what I said." His voice remains flat, but there's something strained beneath the surface.

"What could you possibly find attractive about me?" Mila stares at him.

"Wah?" She asks intelligently.

"Humans and Cornerians are... different," he continues, gaze dropping to his own hands.

"Vastly different, in terms of appearance and mannerisms. And beyond that, I'm aware that my personality isn't exactly..." He pauses, searching for the word.

"... inviting. I'm difficult to be around." He looks back at her, and there it is again, that raw vulnerability lurking beneath the stoic mask.

"So I don't understand. I've been trying to, but I can't figure out what you see that would make you want…" He gestures vaguely to himself "…this." For a moment, Mila can't speak. Then the fury hits.

"Who the fuck said that about you?" The words come out sharp, her ears pinning flat against her skull. Her lips pull back, bearing white fangs.

"Who told you that you're 'difficult to be around'? Because they're wrong. They're completely, totally, absolutely wrong, and I want names so I can go tell them exactly how wrong they are! Was it Eddy? Eli? I don't care, my foot is going up their ass! Tell me!" Trigger blinks, clearly not expecting that reaction.

"No one said it," he replies, brow furrowing in confusion.

"It's a conclusion I drew myself. Based on observation. Based on what I know is considered normal."

"Then your conclusion is stupid." Mila jabs a finger into his chest, hard enough to make him lean back slightly.

"There is nothing wrong with you, Trigger. Nothing. And if you seriously think there is, then you're the dumbest genius pilot I've ever met." She pulls her hand back, and some of the fire drains out of her as quickly as it came. In its place, something softer unfurls.

"You want to know why I like you?" She clenches her fists, steadying herself.

"Fine. I'll tell you." Her gaze drops to her lap, where hands remain balled up.

"You saved me. Back when we first met, when those pirates had me dead to rights. You didn't know me, didn't owe me anything, but you still threw yourself into that fight for me, a stranger." She risks a glance up at him. He's watching her with that same intense, laser-like focus, but he doesn't interrupt.

"And then after, when I asked to team up, you said yes. You could have told me to get lost. I was a rookie with barely any experience, flying a junker that was held together with spit and tweed. You're... you. You could have had your pick of any wingman on the frontier with just one demo, but you took a chance on me anyway, and then kept me when you made a real squad." The memories surface one after another, warming her from the inside.

"When I was shopping for my Caracal, and that salesman was trying to pull a fast one on me, you stepped in. You didn't have to do that. It wasn't your fight, wasn't your credits on the line, but you spoke up and kept me from getting scammed, and you never even mentioned it afterward. Like it wasn't a big deal." Her voice softens.

"You spend time with me. Even when I know you've got a million things you'd rather be doing, even when I drag you into stuff I'm sure you hate, you still... you still show up. You watch cheesy holos with me. You build models with me. You let me talk and get things off my chest, and you actually listen." Mila lifts her head, meeting his eyes fully. They're a touch wider than usual.

"You're not cold, Trigger. You're not difficult. You're just... quiet. And careful. And maybe you don't show things the way other people do, but that doesn't mean you don't feel them." She pauses, and a flush creeps through the fur of her cheeks.

"And as for the physical part..."

'Oh gosh. We're really doing this.' Mila shifts closer, closing the small gap between them. Her hand rises, hesitates for a moment, then presses flat against his chest. She can feel his heartbeat beneath her palm, steady and unbothered.

"Yeah, humans and Cornerians are pretty different," she admits, her voice dropping to something quieter, more intimate.

"Different faces, different bodies, no fur or tail or any of that." She looks up at him through her lashes, and her blush deepens, and the urge to rub her legs together is told to take a hike.

"But ever since we met... I can't seem to fantasize about anyone else anymore. Trust me, I've, uh… I've tried," she squeaks out. You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version. A faint wash of pink crosses Trigger's face. It's so light she almost misses it, barely a dusting of color high on his cheekbones. But she sees it! Mila savors the sight like the finest wine the galaxy can offer, tucking it away in her memory to treasure forever.

'I made Trigger blush. I actually made him blush! Eeeeeee!' For a long moment, Trigger says nothing. Mila's hand remains pressed to his chest, feeling each steady beat of his heart. The silence stretches, and she starts to worry that maybe she said too much, pushed too hard, scared him off with the intensity of her feelings. Then, quietly, almost too soft to hear: "I don't mind cheesy holos or shopping." Mila's breath catches.

His dark eyes meet hers, and there's something fragile in them, something carefully offered.

"As long as it's with you." Her heart, already racing, kicks into a full gallop. Did he just say that? Did he actually, truly just say that? She's not dreaming, right? Because this is really starting to feel like a dream. Before she can spiral further, his arm wraps around her waist and pulls her closer.

'Oh gosh.' The warmth of him seeps through her thin shirt, and she can smell that familiar, subtle scent of Trigger she can't ever rub enough of into her clothes.

'It's actually happening. It's actually, really, truly happening.'

"I've never had a relationship before." The words cut through her euphoria like a bucket of cold water. Mila blinks, pulling back just enough to look at his face.

"Wait, never? Like... never never?" She asks uncertainly. Trigger shakes his head slowly.

"Never. It always seemed..." He pauses, searching for the right word.

"... complicated. Confusing. I didn't see the appeal, and after the war, it wasn't an option for obvious reasons." He's not looking at her now. His gaze has drifted off again, fixed on something she can't see.

"But I care about you, Mila. More than I've ever cared about anyone." His voice is low and measured, like he's tip-toeing his way through a minefield.

"When you're around, the weight of things long done and the worries of things to come aren't so... heavy. It's easier to breathe." Mila's chest tightens.

"At the same time," he continues, "I've never felt anything like this. For anyone. It's all very new, and I..." His lip curls like he wants to bite it, but it halts at just a twitch.

"I don't know how to do this. Any of it." She watches him, really watches him, taking in this unexpected side of the man she's been pining over for months. The legendary Three Strikes, terror of the skies of Strangereal, ace of aces… …Has no idea what it's like to be in a relationship. It makes her heart ache.

"I want to try," Trigger says, finally meeting her eyes again.

"I want to see if we can make this work. But I need to ask..." He hesitates, and for the first time tonight, he looks genuinely uncertain.

"Can we take it slow?" The grumbling, naughty part of Mila that had been hoping for a more physical conclusion to the evening protests loudly. All those fantasies, all those late nights imagining what might happen after The Big Confession, and he wants to take it slow? She squashes that part ruthlessly. Because this is Trigger. Her Trigger, now. If he needs slow, then slow is what he'll get. A wide smile spreads across her face, bright and genuine.

"For you?" She reaches up, brushing her fingers along his jaw.

"I'll be happy with any pace. Even if it's a crawl." Something shifts in his expression. The tension bleeds out of his shoulders, and the corners of his mouth curl upward in a smile that's almost... shy. Mila's heart does a little flip. He pulls her closer, and she takes that as all the invitation she needs. In one smooth motion, she swings her legs over and settles herself fully in his lap, wrapping her arms around his neck and pressing her cheek to his shoulder.

'Finally. Finally finally finally!' She can't hope to hold back the grin on her face. His arms encircle her waist, holding her against him. Not tight, not demanding, just... secure. Like she belongs there. It's as if the contours of their bodies were made to slot together perfectly. They stay like that for a while. Minutes, maybe. Mila loses track, too content to care about something as trivial as time.

The steady rhythm of his breathing, the warmth of his body, the faint thrum of the Aquila beneath them, it all blurs together into a perfect, peaceful moment. A part of her wants a kiss, and wants it now, damn it! The mink is certain she could wrestle his tongue down with her own, but no way, no how is she going to scare him away by being pushy, not when it could ruin everything. For now, the long arms holding her tight are more than enough. Then Trigger speaks, his voice a low rumble she feels as much as hears.

"I understand the appeal of a hug now." She pauses, the warm fuzzies in her stomach stuttering. Slowly, she pulls back to look at him.

"Trigger... when was the last time someone hugged you?"

"Just now," he replies dryly.

"I mean before that, dummy," She puffs her cheeks out in faux annoyance.

"Before we met." Trigger's brow furrows slightly. He seems to actually think about it. Then he shakes his head after a moment that takes way too long.

"Before we met? I don't remember ever being hugged before." Mila gapes at him. Never? Never? Through childhood and adolescence and a whole war, nobody ever...? The horror must show on her face, because Trigger tilts his head slightly, like he's not sure why she's reacting this way.

"Oh," he seems to realize.

"I upset you."

"Trigger," she breathes, and then her arms are around him again, squeezing tight enough to make him grunt.

"That's... that's awful. That's the saddest thing I've ever heard!"

"It wasn't-""No!" She cuts him off, pressing her face into his neck.

"No arguing! You are never going without again, you hear me? I'm prescribing you a minimum of ten hugs a day. Doctor's orders from Dr. Minks herself. No skipping doses!" She feels more than hears his quiet huff of amusement.

"I'd hate to be a difficult patient." His weight shifts, and then they're falling backward together, landing on the mattress with a soft thump! Mila squeaks at the sudden movement, but adjusts quickly, sprawling across his chest with her tail curled contentedly around her thigh.

'This is nice,' she thinks, her eyes growing heavy. The adrenaline of the evening is fading, replaced by a cozy, drowsy contentment.

'This is really, really nice. Ohhhh a girl could get used to this.' She's just starting to drift off, lulled by his heartbeat and the warmth beneath her, when his voice rumbles through her chest.

"I want this to last." Mila makes a sleepy sound of agreement.

"Come hell or high water," he continues quietly.

"Whatever the galaxy throws at us. I want to keep this."

"Me too," she mumbles into his shirt, smiling.

"Me too..."

"And that's why your training regimen is being increased." Her eyes snap open.

"Starting tomorrow, I'll be adding supplementary exercises to your routine. Combat drills, evasion patterns, situational awareness scenarios, combat runs with alternative crafts," His voice is calm, matter-of-fact, like he's discussing the weather and not planning to torture his new girlfriend.

"I will not allow external forces to take you away from me. I'll make you strong enough to survive anything." Mila pushes herself up on her elbows, staring down at him with wide eyes.

"W-wait. Trigger. Honey. Sweetheart." The pet names tumble out in her panic. Is it too early for pet names?

"Can we maybe talk about this? Discuss it like rational adults? You already work me really hard, and not in the way I want. Maybe we can not-""No."

"But-""No." His arms tighten around her waist, preventing escape. Mila whimpers.

'Love hurts…' The Aquila hums quietly in the dark. Trigger stares at the ceiling of his quarters, one arm tucked behind his head, the other wrapped loosely around the woman sleeping on his chest. The chronometer on his desk reads 0237, its dim red glow the only light source in the room. Sleep refuses to come yet again. Mila shifted sometime in the last hour, her head now tucked under his chin, one arm draped across his torso. A soft snore escapes her with each exhale, rhythmic and oddly endearing.

A small smile curves her lips even in sleep, like she's having a pleasant dream. She's also drooling on him. A small damp spot has formed on his shirt, growing incrementally with each passing minute. The warmth of her, both the physical heat radiating through her fur and the strange lightness in his chest, makes it easy to overlook, though. His hand rests on the small of her back, fingers splayed across the fabric of her shirt and the strip of fur above her tail.

He's acutely aware of where his hands are, keeping them in appropriate places despite the suspicion that she wouldn't object if they wandered. Still, even with propriety firmly in mind, he can't help but notice things he hadn't before. Mila's fur is impossibly soft beneath his palm, radiating warmth like a living blanket. He's never held a human woman like this, never had the opportunity or inclination, but he's beginning to suspect it would pale in comparison.

Her smaller-than-human frame fits perfectly against him, every curve slotting into place like a piece of a puzzle he didn't know he'd been missing. His mind wanders to an odd memory. The Osean Air Force had its share of unusual subcultures, pilots and ground crew alike finding ways to pass time between sorties. Among them had been a contingent with a peculiar appreciation for anthropomorphized animals.

"Furries", he thinks they were called. He'd never paid them much attention, content to ignore them as long as it didn't interfere with their duties or his. Except for one incident. A mechanic, young and apparently convinced that Trigger needed "a little something something" to quit being "a stick in the mud", had cornered him in the hangar one afternoon. The man had produced his phone with a conspiratorial grin and shown Trigger a picture he'd saved. An anthropomorphized F/A-18. In racy pink lingerie.

With a pair of disgustingly ballooned breasts. The out-of-place silicone skin-like shine on what should have been matte plating made them even worse. Whatever reaction the airman had hoped for, Trigger taking his phone and whipping it across the hanger wearing a grimace wasn't it. The kid had cried in alarm and ran after his phone, and Trigger had spent the next hour trying to scrub the image from his memory through sheer force of will.

Now, with Mila's warmth pressed against him and her tail occasionally twitching in her sleep, Trigger wonders if the tamer members of those freaks had been onto something after all.

'They'd certainly envy my current position. Hrm… Does this make me one of them?' His eyes trace down her sleeping form, following the curve of her spine to where her tail curls around her thigh. He's looked at her countless times before, of course, but always with a clinical detachment, noting details the way he'd note the specifications of a fighter. Attractive by conventional standards, he'd acknowledged, and then promptly filed that information away as irrelevant. But now... Now he actually sees her.

The curve of her hips beneath the thin sweatpants. The shine of her blonde hair, slightly mussed from sleep. The valley he can see down her shirt. The way her ears twitch occasionally, responding to dreams or sounds he can't perceive. Her tail, fluffy and well-groomed, looks plush and quite… Pettable? Is pettable a word? A different thought surfaces, darker and more insistent. How much has he complicated not just his life, but the lives of the entire crew by pursuing this?

His mind drifts back to Strangereal, to the aftermath of the Lighthouse War. Count and Húxiān had been inseparable during those final desperate weeks, adrenaline and proximity forging a bond that neither had expected. When the war ended, they'd tried to make it work. It lasted three weeks. Trigger remembers the fallout with uncomfortable clarity. The awkward silences that replaced their easy banter. The way Húxiān's voice would go cold whenever Count entered the room.

The shouting matches that erupted over minor disagreements, fueled by wounds that had nothing to do with the argument at hand. For months after, Trigger had to keep them from tearing each other apart during the handful of post-war missions they flew together. Debriefs became minefields, casual conversations became battlegrounds, and he'd spent more time managing their hostility than focusing on the actual objectives. They reconciled eventually.

Time and distance smoothed over the worst of it, and by the time Trigger left Strangereal, they'd returned back to their old friendship, but those months between were ugly. What if he can't meet Mila's expectations? What if whatever this is between them sours into something bitter and resentful? She's not just a fellow pilot he can avoid between missions. They live together, work together, fight together. There's no distance to retreat to, no space to let wounds heal.

If they fall apart the way Count and Húxiān did, Strider Squadron… might fall apart with them. Trigger stops and forces himself to calm down. They've been together for a grand total of two hours. Worrying about worst-case scenarios before they've even had a chance to try and succeed is pointless. Counterproductive. The kind of spiraling that leads to self-fulfilling prophecies. Lars said not to wait, and he didn't.

He looks down at Mila, at the small smile still playing on her lips, at the contentment radiating from her even in sleep. She believes in this. Wants him, believes in him. She explained in plain English, but even then he still doesn't fully understand. With an exhale, he pulls her a little closer, resting his nose on her scalp and between her round ears. The scent of not-quite-vanilla eases his turning mind, and he lets his eyes shut. Already, the prospect of being alone again is daunting. Too daunting.

The corridor outside the captain's quarters is silent save for the quiet tip-tap of clawed paws trying to be sneaky. Jodie presses herself against the wall beside the door, one ear cocked forward as she listens. Beside her, Stella hovers with considerably less confidence, her tail tucked close to her body and her violet eyes darting nervously up and down the hallway.

"This is a terrible idea," Stella whispers.

"Shush." Jodie holds up her wristcomm, fingers hovering over the interface. A few taps bring up a maintenance menu that definitely isn't meant for this purpose, but being the ship's mechanic has its perks. She inputs the admin override and sets the door to open at minimum speed, just a crack, just enough to see inside. The mechanism engages with a soft hiss, barely audible. An inch of darkness appears. Then two. Jodie leans in, one eye pressed to the gap.

Stella crowds in beside her, unable to resist despite her protests. The dim glow of the chronometer illuminates two figures on the bed. Trigger lies on his back, one arm tucked behind his head, the other wrapped securely around Mila's waist. The mink is sprawled across his chest like a living blanket, her face tucked into his neck, her tail curled contentedly around her own thigh. Both of them are fast asleep. Neither of them had known what to think when Mila left for the captain's quarters and simply...

never came back. Minutes had turned to an hour, then two, then three. Jodie and Stella had sat in the women's cabin in increasingly awkward silence, neither willing to voice what they were both thinking. Eventually, without a word exchanged, they'd both risen and crept down the corridor like a pair of guilty teenagers. Jodie's eyes trace over the scene, cataloging all the details. Mila's content little smile. The protective curl of Trigger's arm. It's awful sweet, all things told.

Then her gaze drifts lower, and her brain short-circuits. Trigger's sleeping shorts have... shifted at some point during the night. Ridden down, bunched up, something. The end result is that a certain, quite excited part of his anatomy is making its presence very known beneath the thin fabric. Jodie feels her face ignite. She eyeballs the cloth tent, and the well-honed measuring tape in her brain returns a generous measurement.

'Ho-ley shit. Maybe I messed up by not makin' a move.' Beside her, Stella lets out a tiny squeak that she immediately smothers with both hands. They share a look, both of them crimson from ears to chin. Jodie's seen a lot of things in her years as a frontier mechanic, but somehow this feels like the most scandalous of them all. Jodie lifts her nose slightly, sniffing the air that wafts through the crack in the door.

Mila's scent, heavy and unmistakable, Trigger's subtler smell beneath it, the staleness of recycled air, but nothing else. No... aftermath.

'Huh. So you bagged him but didn't go all the way?' She taps her wristcomm again, and the door slides shut with agonizing slowness. Only when it clicks fully closed does she allow herself to breathe. The two women retreat down the corridor in silence, neither trusting themselves to speak until they're well clear of the captain's quarters. Finally, Jodie glances sidelong at Stella.

"So," she drawls, keeping her voice low.

"If you're gonna sneak off to the head tonight, you better clean up after yourself better than Mila does." Stella stops dead in her tracks. The glare she levels at Jodie could melt steel at fifty paces. Her fur bristles, and a flush so deep that it dyes the white fur on her face crimson spreads across her cheeks.

"I... You... That's..." Jodie just grins, and saunters off toward the women's cabin. Behind her, Stella sputters.