The girls on the rec-room screen are twisting and gyratin' to Eddy's favorite Krazed Kittens music vid, shirts too small for them lovely mammal mammaries and rockin' skirts so short that they could telepathically disappoint your dad, but still his focus slips.

  This time it ain't his brain's fault worrying about things done and dusted, it's the pair of footsteps coming down the stairs from the hangar. One set is robotically consistent, and the other is damn-near silent.

  Trigger and Eli are returning from the brig again.

  The gecko sucks in a deep breath and lets it out, imagination running wild.

  Four days they've had that poor bastard cat in that shoebox-sized cell, and he doesn't seem to realize how deep or final a pile of shit he's stepped in.

  Oh, people like to make fun of poor Eddy, calling him a coward, a cheat, a moron, all kindsa nasty stuff, but only some of those are true. You don't get where he's been, at the highest of highs, eating melt-in-your-mouth marbled klabba off of a xani-gold plate and washing it down with twenty-thousand cred bubbly without knowing a thing or two. And what exactly does a suave guy like him do when he gets a new job?

  He digs up dirt on his co-workers, that's what.

  Eddy didn't dare look up Trigger, not on the Aquila, knowing full-well the AI would sniff him out and flag the search. A look through a public terminal away from prying, digital eyes turned up jack and shit, which, considering the wild fuckin' story Trigger recitied with all the excitement of a scale rot diagnosis a few weeks ago, makes sense. Perfectly validated his expert hunch that sticking around was a good idea, because the safest place when a bone-eating giant is stomping around is behind him, away from the teeth.

  It doesn't hurt when that giant pays pretty good and is only somewhat of an asshole, either.

  Mila and Jodie? Nothin' worth looking at… Well, nothin' worth looking at on a datapad screen that doesn't look better in person, heh. Does Trigger know his woman has some saucy stuff on her Snootbook timeline? Because damn that red bikini hides nothing.

  Stella? A psychic. A psychic from the Hajiti Collective. That's all the bad news Eddy needs to hear to stay wary.

  Lars? Caught a charge for something that resulted in hard time back in Sov territory. Trying to get any records out of that tyrannical hellhole is a pain, but it confirmed that no hands are clean around here.

  Then there's Eli…

  When the shooting stopped after the raid on their ship, his asshat XO press-ganged him into helping strip the bodies. Of course, Eddy pocketed any banknotes found as rightful hazard pay, but the datapads and wristcomms taken off the expired mooks were the real prize. The level of encryption on the datapads, enough that it would take Niddy a full month to crack, points to some real-deal backers, and Trigger wants his hands around their throat yesterday, so he told Eli "Do whatever you need to do to get the passwords."

  The dozens of pages on Eli that Eddy paid a mole a shiny stub for, all blacked out with lines of ink, painted a picture grimmer than anything he could have read.

  And the cat bastard has endured four days of it. Not that Eddy is beat up about it, oh no.

  'Freakin' feline nearly took my head off, so fuck em,' he thinks with a little sneer.

  Eli and Trigger step into the rec room, both of them with their eyes glued to a datapad in Eli's hands, and Eddy hazards a flick of his tongue in the open air.

  The scent of sweat, near-scentless powder shampoo for feathers, mink musk mingled with something weird and alien…

  …And faintly, blood, followed by the acrid, ozone tang of a blaster discharge.

  The gecko sinks into the couch.

  'They better not be coming in here to pin clean-up duty on me...'

  "We'll need to have Nidhogg dig into things and flag relevant leads from older records," Trigger muses as he scans the lines running across the pad in Eli's hands.

  Unfortunately, one George Ader proved himself a competent bounty hunter to the bitter end.

  The cat practiced good opsec, deleting communications between himself and his clients diligently. Whatever orders he received, whatever payment details or target dossiers were sent his way, all of it was scrubbed clean before Strider gunned them down.

  The chat logs between himself and his team members, however, were not so sanitized.

  Perhaps that's why he resisted Eli's questioning as long as he did. There are messages dated back years between them, casual banter and mission debriefs and the kind of ribbing that only comes from people who genuinely enjoy each other's company. Birthday wishes. Inside jokes. A running argument about which jet-dragster team in the hydrocarbon division would take the championship.

  They were friends as much as they were colleagues, and nothing in the logs pointed to them being overly twisted or malicious, just properly numb as their profession demanded.

  Unfortunate that they took this job.

  Trigger scrolls past the older messages, his expression carved from stone. Whatever sympathy might have flickered dies before it can take root. These men came aboard his ship, shot his mechanic, and threatened his crew.

  Their camaraderie can continue in hell.

  The latest exchanges between Ader and the heavyset warthog, the one Lars and Eli put down with shots through the spine, contain the details that matter. Trigger reads them again, committing the relevant portions to memory.

  [TUSK: im telling you man this yelsav prick always insists on a middleman. all this secret spy shit when we KNOW its him

  [ADER: shut the fuck up

  [ADER: if he finds out we know he'll stop sending jobs

  [ADER: or worse. you want to end up in a recycler?

  [TUSK: fine fine. lips sealed. just annoying is all

  Yelsav.

  Trigger's brow furrows. The name tugs at something in the back of his mind, a half-remembered detail that refuses to surface.

  He keeps scrolling.

  [RIKKITS: hey boss why's the skunk girl so wanted anyway? seems like a lot of heat for one mark

  [ADER: burrowmand let something slip during beating. she's wanted for some project.

  something about brains. needs psychics apparently

  [ADER: briefing*

  [RIKKITS: freaky

  [ADER: yeah well freaky pays. No more job chat in here

  That cat openly said they wanted Stella during the attack, but this adds a new layer to the whole thing. How was she traced to them? They haven't exactly kept her confined and away from any and all eyes, but neither has Stella gone galavanting off the ship by herself while they were landed.

  'The only official who knows we have her is Commander Kale back in Griath II, but would he sell us out after we saved his life?' Trigger wonders. Seems unlikely, but it can't be discounted. 'Maybe a Libret naval man who saw us went against orders and tipped off some other officer?'

  And what is this about a brain project? What could that mean? It's precious little, but it's more than they had four days ago.

  Oh, how he was tempted to ask Stella to try and invade Ader's mind. Surely there was something he knew that they could use.

  …But after seeing how she sprung bleeds just from forcing Ader to kneel, he decided against it.

  "I still say we should dump the psychic and wash our hands of this," Eli says, voice low and dangerous. "It's only a matter of time before this happens again."

  "And give the perpetrator what they want?" Trigger asks back, struggling to keep a snarl off his face. "No. They will not receive any concessions. Someone has to pay. Besides, the moment we killed the first boarder, the option to give up went out the window."

  Eli clicks his tongue as they stop behind the rec-room couch where Eddy sits, trying to shrink into himself.

  "Eddy."

  The gecko practically levitates off the couch, his tail going rigid. On the screen behind him, the Krazed Kittens continue their gyrations, blissfully unaware of the interruption.

  "I didn't do nothin'!" Eddy blurts, his hands already raised in surrender. His eyes dart between Trigger and Eli, then down to the datapad in the eagle's talons. "Look, if this is about cleanup duty, I already mopped the hall twice, and my back is killing me, and-!"

  Trigger waves a hand, cutting him off. "Relax."

  Eli steps forward and holds out the datapad. Eddy eyes it like it might bite him, but after a moment's hesitation, his curiosity wins out. He takes it, his thin fingers wrapping around the edges.

  "Two names," Trigger says. "Yelsav and Burrowmand. Start putting out feelers. Use whatever contacts you have, whatever channels you trust. I want to know who they are, where they operate, and how they connect to whoever put that bounty on Stella's head."

  Eddy's tongue flicks out, a nervous habit. "And when I find somethin'?"

  "Report back immediately. To me or Eli." Trigger nods toward the datapad. "Nidhogg will be scanning the rest of the contents in the background. Coordinate with him as needed."

  The gecko nods slowly, already scrolling through the messages. His brow ridges climb higher with each swipe, and Trigger can practically see the gears turning behind those beady black eyes.

  Then Eddy pauses. His tongue flicks again.

  "Yelsav," he repeats, tapping a claw against the screen. "I know that name. Big shot in the Trade Union. One of their public faces, handles media stuff and-"

  The memory surfaces like a breaching whale. His first morning on Kalibo III, on the holo in that closet-like hotel room.

  "It's not our intention to cause unrest in Griath," A, fittingly enough, vulture on the holo screen says, adjusting his tie. Behind him is a fountain made of a silvery metal inlaid with circuit-like lines of brilliant yellow, and behind that, a large, glittering skyscraper, whose sign is partially cut off by the camera angle. "Nor is the Trade Union 'pricing out' non-affiliates. The toll increases are part of a joint fundraising initiative with AstroNet Assembly intended to fund the building of another set of gates and the clearing of a new star lane. We understand that the good people of Griath are experiencing moderate financial distress, and the Trade Union extended its sympathies with attempted aid, but the brokering of relief deals with system leadership has been stubbornly refused time and again. We with the Trade Union urge the peoples of Griath to pen your governors and local leaders to express your dissatisfaction with their inaction."

  Oliver Yelsav.

  "Good work," Trigger says, and Eddy blinks at the praise like he's not quite sure what to do with it. "Keep digging. I want everything you can find on him, and on this Burrowmand middleman. Payment records, known associates, communication patterns. Anything."

  Eddy tucks the datapad under his arm and stands, his earlier nervousness replaced by something almost resembling enthusiasm. A job he's actually good at, perhaps. Or maybe just relief that he's not scrubbing bloodstains off the deck plating.

  "You got it, cap. I'll start rattlin' cages." He flicks a lazy salute that's more habit than respect, then pauses at the stairs. "Uh... how deep you want me to dig? 'Cause Trade Union types, they got layers, y'know? Lawyers, shell companies, the works. Could get messy."

  Ugh, how he hates all of this. Problems that can't be solved with a lock-on tone, a button press, and a radio call of "fox 2!" will never cease to be annoying.

  "Start with the middleman," Trigger replies after a moment to think. "If Yelsav proves to be too troublesome to probe directly, we'll shakedown this Burrowmand character. You have a discretionary fund of twenty-thousand credits to open doors with. Clean the money before using it."

  Eddy scoffs. "I know that!"

  "And don't skim any off the top."

  The gecko looks away, not able to keep the nervous twitch of his lips suppressed. "I would never!"

  Trigger rolls his eyes. "Remember. Any breakthroughs, tell us. Go."

  With that, Eddy scurries away towards the bridge, with Trigger and Eli following at a more sedate pace.

  "Your hunch on the Trade Union's involvement seems spot on," Trigger comments, folding his hands behind his back as they walk.

  The eagle turns his eyes to the man. "You think the mark on the skunk and the Salvager League suddenly being everywhere at once is connected?"

  Trigger lets out an amused breath. "I have no evidence, but experience says a coincidence is almost never a coincidence."

  Eli answers with a crisp nod. "On that, we agree," he answers. As they ascend the narrow stairs to the hangar, then loop around to walk up the stairs to the bridge, Eli checks his wristcomm. "The client's mess of a spaceport storefront is offloading the last of its inventory. The planetary government claimed most of it, and now the loose merchandise is being sold off to whoever is in the port."

  Trigger nods along and gestures for Eli to continue, only half-listening as he ponders how all the metaphorical gears around him fit together.

  'What is this brain project they spoke of?' He wonders with a subtle frown. 'Some sort of think tank? Why would it be exclusive to psychics?'

  "Minks and Ortiz report no issues during their guard shift," Eli scrolls down on the screen. "Other than a customer getting mouthy when what he wanted wasn't in stock. Ortiz defused the situation. They'll be returning within the hour. I expect the client will want to depart in the morning."

  "Good to hear," Trigger nods, inwardly glad today was calm. As he and Eli step into the bridge proper, he gives it a looking over.

  All is calm here too, thankfully. Eddy is over by the sensors, his feet kicked up as he looks between the datapad in his hand and the screen on his console, which has a browser window pulled up. In the corner of the console screen, Nidhogg's icon, a simple red circle, pulses slowly.

  In the pilot's seat, Jodie sits with a face that is the very definition of grumpy. Her usual overalls are on vacation, replaced with a bathrobe that can be donned and doffed without needing to bend and aggravate her side. She watches through the ramp camera as a hired team of mechanics plasma torch the last of the ruined ramp doorframe off, then begin lifting a new door up with a grav-lift.

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  "Those welds look so damn bad!" Jodie bemoans as the mechanics start their repairs.

  The one welding the frame in stutters and stops, lifting his mask to inspect his work, then goes over it again.

  "No!" The team mechanic rages, her fingers curling into a claws. "You're boogering it up, you third-rate, brain-dead, chain-branded garage-!"

  A purple-furred hand on her shoulder stops Jodie from standing, and the coyote shoots a look of pure venom at the skunk hovering over her.

  "Jodie," Stella begins calmly. "You said you would just watch. That was the condition I set for you to be up here and not in the infirmary, remember?"

  "But they're-!"

  "Jodie…"

  Bearing her teeth in a snarl, Jodie crosses her arms and looks away, miserable.

  "Jodie," Trigger cuts in, drawing the coyote's attention. "Heed Stella's advice. When you've recovered, you can audit the work yourself and redo anything that doesn't meet your standards."

  The mechanic's ears flatten. "But-"

  "I made sure to hire competent people," he continues, his tone brooking no argument. "It won't be up to your quality, but it will hold until you're able to correct it."

  Jodie holds his gaze for a long moment, her jaw working like she's chewing on a particularly stubborn piece of gristle. Then, with a sigh that seems to deflate her entire body, she slumps back into the pilot's seat.

  "Fine," she mutters, turning back to the camera feed. "But when I'm better, I'm ripping out every shoddy seam on this boat and doing it right."

  'I expect nothing less,' Trigger thinks with a fond, inward smile.

  On screen, one of the mechanics fumbles a connector, and Jodie's claws dig into the armrest. "Oh, for the love of... you gotta seat it before you weld, you absolute-!"

  Trigger leaves her to her grumbling and turns to Stella. "How is her recovery progressing? Well, I assume, since she's up and wanting to terrorize anyone who touches the ship."

  The skunk's lips quirk into a tired smile. "Well enough, all things considered." She combs a hand through her short, white hair, slipping into a clinical cadence. "Full recovery in two to three weeks, barring complications. I should be comfortable clearing her for light duties within the week." Her expression sobers slightly. "The bolt did nick her kidney, but since I was able to inject the Mendacyn-X directly into the wound, I expect negligible function loss. All in all, she's doing about as well as someone who took a laserbolt through the stomach can be."

  Trigger nods, a knot of tension he hadn't realized he'd been carrying loosening. "Good. Thank you for being diligent."

  Stella dips her head in acknowledgment, a faint flush coloring the insides of her ears.

  "I've looked over the supply list you submitted," Trigger continues, pulling up his comm and swiping over to the list in question.

  And what a list it was. It's not a long one, but the items on it are pricey.

  "Unfortunately, we're too far from any major hubs to acquire most of it," he continues. "We won't have access to proper medical suppliers until we return to Tantalus."

  The skunk waves a dismissive hand. "Don't trouble yourself over it, Captain. Scanners, a nurse bot, chem-synthesizers... they're all fantastic tools to have on hand, certainly, but I can make do with what we have." She gestures vaguely toward the infirmary's direction. "I've worked with far less in far worse conditions. Your crew will be well looked after."

  "Appreciated."

  With nothing else demanding his immediate attention, Trigger settles into the captain's chair and pulls up the general news feed on the main display. The headlines scroll past in a steady stream of mundane crises and political theater. A mining dispute in the outer belt of Libret territory, a celebrity scandal involving some B-list actor's odd sex life, an advertisement for some new brand of engine lubricant that promises thirty percent better thermal efficiency. On another screen, he scans through the local news. More shortages, a riot, calls for a governor to resign over mismanaged emergency funds, all expected.

  He reads slowly, only absorbing the most critical bits and letting the noise wash over him.

  Yelsav. Burrowmand. A "brain" project that needs psychics.

  The pieces are there. He just can't see how they fit together yet…

  "I'm glad to hear your mechanic is doing well. Dreadful business, those bounty hunters mistaking you for someone else," Farworth shudders on the screen of Trigger's personal terminal. "We're set to leave at first light on the 'morrow, then?" he asks, back to business as soon as the niceties are out of the way.

  "Yes, Mister Farworth," Trigger nods, folding his hands on the desk. "Our repairs are complete. Your XO and I have already reviewed the proposed route and Strider Squadron finds it agreeable. We'll be ready for liftoff at 0700 local time."

  "Splended! Splendid indeed!" The mustachioed badger brings his hand together in a single clap. "Your crew have more than proved themselves, but I'm eager to be back in safer waters!"

  Trigger certainly hopes so, considering how much action they've seen this mission. "Thank you, Mister Farworth. I'll pass your compliments to the crew," he says mildly. "Before we conclude this call, Mister Farworth, I have a question. Just friendly chatter between business associates, if you'd entertain it."

  Farworth hums, narrowing his eyes. "Friendly chatter, hmm?" he questions, tweaking his mustache between two fingers. "I'll be happy to answer, if I can."

  "Before taking this mission, I saw a Trade Union representative speak on the news regarding Griath and the situation at hand with the gate tolls," Trigger begins calmly, hoping this stunt doesn't blow up. "One Oliver Yelsav. He strikes me as an interesting character, don't you think?"

  Farworth's eyes narrow further, and it takes him a moment to reply. When he does, the words come slow and cautious. "I find being specieist to be in bad taste, Captain, but Yelsav is… a vulture in more ways than one. That's all I care to say."

  A vulture in more ways than one? How curious…

  "I understand," Trigger says back, inclining his head. "I'll let you go, Mister Farworth. Have a nice evening."

  "The same to you, Captain Trigger."

  With that, the feed on the screen disconnects.

  "Ugh, finally!"

  The very moment Trigger ends the call, a pair of furred arms wrap around his neck, and a soft body attaches itself to him like a limpet, chasing away serious thoughts and replacing them with a unique sort of content lethargy.

  Turning his head, he finds a pair of large, ruby-colored eyes framed by blonde inches away from his own.

  Trigger doesn't fight, but neither does he help (much) when Mila pulls him off his desk chair and towards the bed, where his blankets have been fashioned into what looks like a makeshift nest. Already, her personal datapad is resting at the foot of the bed, propped up by the frame.

  The mink girl pauses halfway, looking at his flightsuit with annoyance. "Off!" She orders, releasing him briefly.

  "I thought I was the captain here," Trigger jokes, but nonetheless starts unzipping the dark olive suit.

  The space to step back lets him see what outfit she's picked for tonight.

  There isn't much to the set of covering. Literally. Mila's shirt is somehow too large and too small, with the neckhole so wide that it sits on the edges of her shoulders, giving a generous view of the valley between her breasts and the little tuft of fur in the center of her chest. At the same time, it's cut off around the middle, showing off her creme-furred underbelly and navel. No bra, naturally. Idly, he wonders how warm it would be if he slipped a hand between-

  Trigger shakes his head.

  Lower down, black panties of sheer lace hug her hips, so thin that they only barely count as clothing. Thicker fur atop her pubic bone juts out from over the top of the waistband, a silent invitation to touch here!

  Other than that, all Mila has is her choker, which only ever comes off to be washed and for showers.

  Mila catches him looking a little longer than he should have, and with a grin, strikes a pose with a wink.

  "Like what you see?" She teases with a giggle.

  "Yes. Very much," Trigger answers, deadpan, shrugging off the sleeves of his flightsuit.

  The mink girl manages to stumble over nothing.

  Turning towards the dresser, Trigger hides the small, satisfied smile as he steps out of both his outer flightsuit and the fire retardant inner layer. Now in his undershirt and boxers, he leans down to pick up his suit and toss it into the laundry hamper in the corner. It's quite lucky that the washing machine they picked up in Tantalus can-!

  Ping!

  The man freezes, thoughts horribly derailed and hands flying to his rear when something small and metallic rebounds off glutes.

  "Ohmygosh! They are tight enough to bounce a coin off 'em!"

  Trigger turns, knowing his face is red, and finds a delighted Mila with a silvery half-cred coin between her fingers. Upon seeing him turn around, she tosses the coin into the nightstand drawer and closes it, nonchalantly looking away.

  "What was that?" Trigger frowns, trying to will away the embarrassed flush on his cheeks with limited success.

  "Weeeell…" Mila tries to look innocent, but her smile betrays her as she circles the bed and walks towards him. "I was just curious, that's all."

  She steps closer, wrapping her arms around his neck again, and his circle her waist in reflex, pulling her close.

  "You look at my butt all the time," Mila continues, a mischievous grin in place. "So I do the same to you, and the intrusive thoughts won. You do have a great booty, by the way. Is that from clenching when you're flying at fifty Gs?"

  "...Saying I look 'all the time' is a gross exaggeration," Trigger eventually shoots back, hating how contact with her frazzles his brain so, a drunkenness that comes without downing a single drop.

  But no matter what, letting go is worse.

  The Cornerian woman in his arms is a sensory feast, one that he can't help but relish like a man dying of thirst given a personal oasis. Soft and warm and pleasant and female in a way that can't be quantified, and the uncertainty of it all gnaws at him.

  All of Trigger's life, most everything could be broken down into facts and numbers. Dates, missions, ammo counts, fuel, things he can measure and predict. These things don't change out of nowhere, not when due diligence is done, and Trigger always does his due diligence.

  Then came the things that were harder to measure, like friends.

  Most people, he learned, are friends by way of proximity rather than genuine connection. Barring a meeting of completely incompatible personalities, people bond to those they spend time with, on a surface level, at least.

  Nearly all of Trigger's relationships fell under that umbrella. People came to him because they lived under the same roof, or because they were teammates, never the other way around. The company of his closest friends on Strangereal was cherished… But almost never did he seek them out first. Being alone or with company, both suited him.

  Now, here he is, wanting something that cannot be measured or known, something more real and tangible than his desire for freedom, and finding himself frozen each time he's confronted with it.

  And ever since, he's just let Mila drag him along, too… too scared by uncertainty to do much else.

  But… If he didn't allow himself to suffer risks, ones where he has to grapple with variables he isn't sure he can handle, would he still be here, in the arms of a beautiful woman?

  No.

  "What's living without a risk or two?" he mumbles under his breath, holding Mila a bit tighter.

  "Uh, Trigger? Are you okay?"

  The man blinks when a pair of dainty knuckles knock on his forehead. "Hmm? What was that?"

  "Are you okay?" Mila asks again, looking up at him with a frown on her muzzle. "You've been spaced out for, like, a full minute. Is something wrong? Can I help?"

  She talks, but Trigger only hears every other word, his eyes locked on her lips.

  Soft, warm fur that he cannot get enough of.

  A soothing, delicate scent he'd replace air with if he could.

  Laughter like bells, given up freely.

  Nothing needs said about her visage, for it speaks for itself.

  Truly a sensory feast, but…

  "But how about taste?" Trigger whispers to himself.

  "Taste?" Mila blinks once, then looks over at the hand that rises to cup her cheek. "What are you-mmph!"

  Tossing out every little voice telling him it's too soon, too risky, that he needs to gather more data first, Trigger leans down…

  …And presses his lips to hers.

  It's a trope in fiction that even Trigger knows of, that a kiss is like touching your lips to a livewire, but instead of a painful jolt, it's utter euphoria that travels up and down the body. So good, so right Mila's lips feel against his own, that he can't spare any brainpower to be surprised by how true it is.

  Mila stiffens in abject shock, eyes bugging out, and her tail fluffing up and going rigid behind her. Her claws prickle his neck as her grip grows tight. For a moment, it seems like Trigger's worst fears come true.

  Then, it all drains away. Her eyes flutter shut, and she presses herself to him, as if offended that any space exists between their bodies. A clawed hand finds its way to the back of his head as Mila becomes the aggressor, with a positively pornographic sound passing from her mouth to his.

  This is what he was missing out on for so many years? This… this…

  The pilot hasn't any words for the sensation rolling in his stomach, but all of a sudden, his world gets bigger, but at the same time smaller, narrowing to just himself, Mila, and the sensation of tender lips on his.

  There is no room on this big-small world for doubts anymore.

  No matter how much either side wants it to, the kiss can't last forever, as Mila has to break away for a gasp of air. As she catches her breath, Trigger licks his lips.

  'Mint toothpaste and something else. I could get used to it.'

  "Wha-was… Hwa…" Mila's words come out slurred, and she slaps a hand over her mouth, her inner ears coloring in embarrassment. She looks up at him through a curtain of blonde bangs as the short circuit runs its course.

  "Sorry," Trigger apologizes without meaning it at all. Leaning down, he presses his forehead to hers. He also uses that moment to glance down, to be sure his feet are planted, because it certainly felt like he was flying. "Intrusive thoughts won. You know all about that, right?"

  Mila's hand falls, showing the bashful smile she was hiding. Words still escape her, but that doesn't stop the giddy, full-body wiggle or the giggle that bubbles out of her.

  "That was my first kiss," Trigger continues, unable to stop the full-blown smile that makes the muscles on his cheeks ache a little. "So I hope it wasn't too clumsy."

  "Hmm…" Mila taps her chin with a finger and pretends to think, her sparkling eyes inspecting the corner of the room for a moment. "That was good… For a first timer. I think you need more practice though!"

  "Somehow I knew I wouldn't be up to par," He jokes back. "Teach me."

  Mila grins wide, still blushing in the thin fur of her ears.

  When she mashes her lips to his, it's just as good as the first time.

  The outro of Moonbeam Mink on the forgotten datapad finally returns some of Trigger's attention to the outside world.

  Some.

  Most of it, however, is still wrapped up in the plush-furred Cornerian half-draped on his back with her chin on his shoulder, where she lazily nibbles and laps at the nape of his neck.

  The plan was to sit and watch something from the vast library of pirated junk that is Mila's pad like they often do in the evenings, but that went off the rails in a hurry after the first kiss.

  As did many, many boundaries.

  Normally, they'd lay side-by-side, occasionally holding hands, as they flit to and fro across all the animated culture (and swill—some of the things his girlfriend enjoys are just plain bad) from differing parts of the galaxy. Anime, dramas, and sometimes music videos that Mila would get up and dance for were all part of the lineup and then some.

  Tonight? Several episodes of MBM passed, unnoticed by the tangle of groping limbs and kissing mouths.

  'I'm glad I'm laying on my stomach,' Trigger dimly thinks as her warm tongue trails across his neck again. 'No need to rile Mila up anymore, or any semblance of 'taking it slow' might go out the window.'

  The Osean man licks his lips and tastes no copper, though there is a sting from a spot on his lower lip.

  'She's a biter,' he sighs inwardly. 'I knew there had to be a catch.'

  As if reading his thoughts, Mila pauses her licking, and he can feel her nose twitch against his skin as if she's scenting something.

  …Like a prime place to bite.

  "No more biting," Trigger grunts, shrugging his shoulder and getting Mila to lift her head. "I don't know if this is part of some Cornerian courting ritual or something, but I don't have fur. It'll show."

  Mila blinks a bit of bleariness from her eyes and shakes her head. "Aw, but Trigger! That's the point!" She whines. "If any other mustelid-subtypes see you, how are they supposed to know we're a serious thing? I won't even need to bite too hard for everyone to see!"

  'Wait, that is part of a courting ritual?' Trigger's brow furrows.

  The heroine in Moonbeam Mink did the same to her love interest, along with a few other odd interactions, but Trigger filed it away as some kind of abstract, lewd fiction. Clearly, Mila and he had broken a barrier he didn't see and are now 'serious' with each other.

  'Not that we were doing anything in proper order, but I thought we were already serious. Assuming Cornerian romance follows a similar path to human romance is unwise, then.' Outwardly, he says: "Then I'll inform any who show interest that I'm seeing someone."

  "I like my way better," Mila puffs her cheeks out in annoyance, then reaches out to her datapad and starts the next episode.

  As the intro rolls by, Trigger can't help but ask. "Mila? Do different Cornerians have differing methods of courtship?"

  The mink snorts, then giggles brightly. "'methods of courtship'? You sound like one of my old professors!"

  Trigger rolls his eyes. "You don't need to be mean about it."

  "Sorry, sorry!" Mila leans over and plants a quick, apologetic peck on his lips, and he almost chases her when she withdraws. "But yes, a lot of Cornerians do little things differently when they date. There's sometimes more or less stuff depending on local customs and all that, but usually the same subtypes follow similar paths." She waves a hand vaguely. "Everyone knows the broad strokes, so there's usually an unspoken agreement to forgive little mistakes if you date outside your subspecies."

  Trigger considers this for a moment, then asks, "What are we, then? According to how mink Cornerians do things?"

  Mila opens her mouth to answer, then stops. Her brow furrows, and she studies his face with growing realization.

  "Oh… Oh right…" The mink's ears droop, and she looks away, her earlier playfulness evaporating into something more subdued. "That's... that's on me. I should have explained better." She picks at a loose thread on the blanket. "You're just so serious and competent at everything that I... I kinda forget you're an alien sometimes."

  Trigger reaches over and takes her hand, stilling her fidgeting. "I'm equally at fault for being too scared to ask until now."

  Mila's gaze returns to his, and the smile that blooms across her muzzle is warm enough to chase away the lingering awkwardness. She squeezes his fingers.

  "Okay! So, we went a little out of order, but that's fine!" She shifts to face him more fully. Her tail swishes with renewed enthusiasm, tickling the back of his legs. "Normally, mustelids do the standard stuff. Pre-dating can involve hanging out, gifts, scent marking..." She ticks each item off on her claws. "Or picking a fight, either with the object of your affections or just someone tough in front of them to impress them!"

  Trigger gives her a flat, skeptical look.

  "I'm not joking!" Mila insists, holding up her hands. "I once beat up some big wolf bitch of a senior in high school to impress a boy I liked. The detention was so worth it!" Her expression falters. "Until we broke up at the end of the year because he said I was 'too intense'..."

  "My enthusiasm at dating a high school bully knows no bounds," Trigger deadpans.

  Mila groans, burying her face in her hands. "I'm not a bully! It was just a little scuffle between girls, is all!" She peeks through her fingers, cheeks flushed. "But for real, being a fighter willing to punch up is something a lot of mustelids admire."

  She lowers her hands, composing herself. "Anyway, after that comes the actual dating, and kissing, and meeting the family." She taps her chin thoughtfully. "That last one is a big deal for otters, by the way. Huge. Don't skip it if you ever date one." A pause. "Not that you should be dating any otters. Or anyone else. Ever."

  "How intense."

  Mila sticks her tongue at him. "And once you're sharing sleeping space, then it starts being serious."

  'So much for taking it slow,' Trigger thinks, glancing at the nest of blankets they're currently tangled in.

  "Then off come the clothes, and you share warmth directly in bed!"

  Trigger turns his head, lifting his front a bit off the bed to better look Mila up and down, taking in her scant clothing with his eyes stopping on a hint of pink squashed between her breast and the bedcover. "Should I buy a ring at this rate?"

  Her ears burn, and a yellow-furred hand slaps his shoulder, but Mila pointedly does not fix her shirt. "You're cruising for a bruising, Mister Lippy. I just told you I put down a girl twice my size in high school. Are you sure you wanna tussle with me?"

  "Skipping straight to domestic violence, I see," Trigger says glibly, resting his chin in his hand. "Too bad I know a technique to stop you cold."

  Mila blinks, craning her head back cautiously. "What techni-mmfph!"

  A surprise kiss freezes her in place, and immediately after, another episode of Moonbeam Mink goes unwatched.