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Tachyon stood in the corner of the crowded lounge, drink untouched in her hand, a forced smile tugging at the corners of her mouth like a muscle spasm.
The music was loud, the lights too warm. Someone had spiked the punch with something neon blue. Her coat smelled faintly of lab chemicals, and she could already feel the condensation from her drink creeping into her sleeve.
But none of that was what irritated her.
It was Jungle Pocket.
Specifically, the way Pokke was surrounded. Flanked. Swarmed. Call it whatever term you liked, it was an observable clustering effect: at least six girls hovered around her, reacting to her every word with laughter and flushed cheeks. She looked dazzling in her usual jacket, skirt swaying with every shift of her hips, braid bouncing behind her like a pendulum measuring the time between Tachyon’s increasingly irrational thoughts.
Jealousy, Tachyon concluded, was a destabilizing variable.
She tried to catalog her symptoms objectively: accelerated pulse, dry throat, recurring jaw tension, a heightened sensitivity to the sound of Pokke laughing at someone else’s joke. It all pointed to a single root cause: social threat to perceived exclusive bond.
And yet knowing the why didn’t help at all.
She took a sip of her drink. Still terrible. Synthetic fruit over ice and regret. She placed it down and immediately crossed her arms.
Another girl leaned in toward Pokke, a hand brushing her elbow. Tachyon could feel her eye twitch.
These people didn’t know her. They didn’t understand the complexities behind Pokke’s stupid grin, or the way her confidence hid a recklessness that sometimes bordered on self-destructive. They hadn’t seen her curled up half-asleep in Tachyon’s lab chair after practice, or eating instant curry at 3 a.m. like it was gourmet.
They weren’t there when she limped back from training, bleeding and pretending it didn’t hurt.
But now they were close, too close, getting pieces of her attention like they’d earned it.
Tachyon hated that.
She knew it was irrational. That she didn’t own Pokke.
But if anyone looked at her for more than ten seconds, she started calculating ways to short-circuit the power in the room.
“Tachyon!” someone called across the floor, waving.
She ignored them.
Another girl leaned in to touch Pokke’s braid. That was it. She turned and stalked out of the room before she did something undignified. Like knock over a chair.
The hallway was quiet, cool. Tachyon leaned against the wall and rubbed at her temple.
She shouldn’t have come. She didn’t like parties. She liked controlled environments. Sterile ones. With results she could measure and variables she could isolate.
Pokke was not a variable. She was a black hole. A chaotic constant.
And Tachyon was a genius—but not immune.
She was mid-breath when she heard it: a thump. Then a chorus of laughter. Not the kind you wanted to hear. Not the kind Pokke liked either.
Her body moved before her brain caught up.
Back in the lounge, a small circle had formed near the drinks table. And at the center of it—
“Pokke—!” she snapped, pushing forward.
Jungle Pocket was on the floor, red in the face, braid half-undone, and laughing into her own hand.
Tachyon dropped beside her, heart slamming against her ribs.
“You’re hurt?”
“Nooo,” Pokke slurred, squinting up at her. “M’fine. Floor’s just—hic—real persuasive right now.”
Her voice was syrupy. Her eyes glazed. Her cup had spilled, the sharp smell of cheap alcohol on her breath.
“Idiot,” Tachyon muttered.
“Y’really showed up,” Pokke mumbled. “Didn’t think you’d come back…”
“Couldn’t stay away.” Her voice was tight. “You were surrounded.”
Pokke giggled. “You jealous?”
“You’re wasted.”
“Doesn’t mean I’m wrong.”
Tachyon looped her arms around her, lifting her off the floor. Pokke gave a soft noise of surprise, then leaned into her without protest, arms draped around her shoulders.
“Why’re you always so strong?” she murmured.
“Muscle density,” Tachyon muttered. “And you weigh less than a bag of lab beakers.”
“Romantic.”
“Be quiet.”
—————
She found an empty study room nearby, dim and untouched, with a couch long enough to lie down on. Tachyon lowered Pokke gently onto it, propped a pillow under her head, and grabbed a water bottle from her coat—yes, she carried one, of course she did.
“Drink.”
Pokke made a face. “Is it one of your weird supplements?”
“It’s filtered water.”
“With a weird aftertaste?”
Tachyon glared. “Do you want to wake up with a headache and the taste of artificial cherry in your mouth?”
Pokke laughed. “Not especially.”
She sipped.
Tachyon sat beside her, shoulders tense, arms crossed again. It took all her effort not to fidget.
“I saw them,” she said after a long pause.
“Who?”
“The girls. Around you.”
“Oh.” Pokke blinked. “They were just talking.”
“Touching you.”
“They were drunk.”
“And you were letting them.”
Pokke looked at her then, blinking slowly. “You were jealous.”
Tachyon looked away. “That’s irrelevant.”
“No, it’s really not.”
“I just didn’t like the variables.”
Pokke snorted. “Sure.”
“They don’t know you,” Tachyon said, voice quieter now. “Not like I do.”
“They weren’t trying to.”
“That doesn’t make it better.”
Pokke shifted, her fingers brushing Tachyon’s sleeve. “You’re really bad at pretending not to care, you know.”
“I’m excellent at suppressing emotion.”
“You look like you want to murder someone.”
“I do want to murder a you.”
Pokke laughed, loose and breathy. “So possessive.”
Tachyon leaned closer, eyes sharp now, voice low. “I don’t like sharing things that matter.”
Pokke’s eyes widened slightly.
“Especially not you.”
The silence stretched.
“You’re not an experiment,” Tachyon said, still close. “You’re not something I can control. But if anyone’s going to be close to you—really close—it’s going to be me.”
Pokke’s lips parted, her breath catching. “You always call me your guinea pig.”
“I do.”
“Why?”
Tachyon hesitated.
“Because you’re the only one I trust to break things with,” she said. “To test things on. To fall apart around.”
Pokke flushed, the pink on her cheeks blooming past the alcohol haze.
“That’s messed up,” she whispered.
“I know.”
“But I like it.”
Tachyon stared at her.
Then, slowly, cautiously—like even she couldn’t fully predict the outcome—she leaned in.
And Pokke met her halfway.
The kiss was unsteady at first. Not soft, not graceful. Pokke tasted like sweet punch and heat, her hand curling against Tachyon’s collar. Tachyon’s fingers hovered at her jaw, then settled, steadying them both.
It deepened—tentative, then real. Like a boundary collapsing between them.
When they broke apart, Pokke blinked, dazed. “Was that… a breakthrough?”
Tachyon laughed—an actual, quiet laugh, surprised out of her.
“Definitely not repeatable under lab conditions,” she murmured.
“Guess we’ll have to keep testing.”
Tachyon leaned her forehead against hers, breath warm and close.
“Good,” she whispered. “Because I’m not done with you yet.”