Chapter Text
The first time she hugged you, she was sweaty, quivering, but somehow lighter than air, ethereal even in fear. Your thumbs brushed her cheekbones and she told you that the changes in her own body were frightening her, that she wasn’t ready.
You remembered your mother and teachers and friends warning you about getting your period and the ways you could stop it — hyposprays, dermal patches, reversible surgery — which meant when your young eyes had widened at bright red blossoming on toilet tissue, you had been sure this was bad and wrong because no one tells you how to stop something that is good and right.
So you didn’t say anything about stopping her elogium. Instead, you promised to help her get through it.
And she did.
The second time she hugged you, your eyelids were heavy with fatigue. Maybe that’s why you’d babbled, telling her about Mark and your dreams of being with him again, the silk of your robe like soft bedclothes as you confessed your nighttime yearnings for the man you loved.
Her hug had been soothing that time. Something had shifted. She had come to you for comfort, but her arms brought you strength and that night your dream was different.
It was about her.
Slim, confident arms enfolding you.
Low voice in your ear murmuring that you’re loved, you’re safe.
Hips nudging yours, an invitation, nothing more.
You woke up breathless, sheets bunched in your clenched hands.
After that, you kept your distance, told yourself that she was a member of your crew, off-limits, so whatever romantic feelings you had for her were bad and wrong.
Because no one tells you how to stop something that is good and right.
The last time she hugged you, hot tears burned your eyes and you wanted to confess to her again, wanted to say, “Please stay because I love you,” but this hug was the antithesis of that first time, this last hug saw her confident in what was happening to her body and you were the one frightened.
You pressed your cheek to hers, skin skimming on skin, and cupped your hand to the back of her head, golden hair slipping around your fingers, and your chest ached and you willed this moment to go on forever.
But then she was lighter than air in front of you, shimmering in and out of existence.
You watched her shuttle exit the bay, the heel of your hand pressed to your breaking heart.
That night, you buried your nose in your silk robe, breathed where her arms had held you.
It might have been good and right, but you were a coward and now you’ll never know.
You folded your silk robe for the last time and laid it on your replicator.
“Computer, recycle.”
And, like her, the soft silk shimmered away.