Sanalessa goes to the bridge to give them some space. Iskarot wanders to a quiet corner to ensure all his tools and supplies are intact. When the door to the shuttle slams shut, they are alone.

Dolce runs and clings to her without another word. Without needing another word. He wraps his arms around her as far as they will go and buries his face against her. How could he not have noticed how much he was carrying, until she volunteered to remove the slightest bit of it? How could he keep away any longer?

Vasilia picks him up like he weighs nothing. Here, love; isn’t this shoulder where your head should rest? Don’t these fingers belong in your curls? Feel this low, murmuring purr all through your poor, tired body. “There, there. It’s okay. I’m here. I’m here. I’m-”

He pulls back. Just a bit. To tell her how he’s missed her. To tell her thank you for saving him. To tell her he’s so, so sorry for making her worry. 

She pulls back. Just a bit. Her mouth half-open. To tell him he needs to lay still. To tell him it’s alright. To tell him she’s never, ever going to let go of him again.

They are close. Close enough to share breath.

They both find something better to stay.

Her lips press gently into his, her breath hitches against his face. She can’t believe this is real, that she gets to hold you again. His mouth is not enough. She claims his cheeks. His nose. His jaw. His neck. His neck. His neck. You are lovely. You are [i]so[/i] handsome. You are perfect, perfect, perfect. Her arms bind him tight to her chest, squeezing this warm, soft lump flush against her, and tighter still. She missed you. She needed you. Her fingers sink into his wool. Her claws trace tingling paths along his skin. Mine. Mine. [i]Mine.[/i]

He presses up into her lips, welcoming her eagerly. He’s alright. He’s safe. He wants her. His head lolls against her shoulder, baring his face and neck to her hungry mouth. You have all of him. All his heart is yours, and yours alone. He shivers. He nuzzles. He wiggles helplessly in her grasp, soft wool against golden fur. He has been lost, so lost, and now he is safe. He is safe with you. The chef who worked the silent kitchens opens his mouth, and out spills a litany of dazed, joyful bleating, all for her. He is happy. It is your fault. This much, you have already set right.

Behind them, the viewport fills with the blossoming flower of an anti-Boarpedo battery catching light and discharging all of its munitions in one glorious display. The whole shuttle shakes, throwing anything unfortunate enough to be improperly secured rattling to the deck.

All Vasilia hears is

[i]don’t stop[/i]