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The spaceport carried the unmistakable bouquet of recycled air laced with the frying oil from a dozen noodle stalls, the metallic bite of cheap ion thrusters cooling down, and overtop of it all the slow, sweet rot of decomposable packaging surrendering to the impact of time. Stelle drew it in deeply, savoring it the way an oenophile would smell a complex red wine; Dan Heng held his nose as he breathed the same air, mentally cataloging it as biohazardous miasma.
They docked only two hours earlier and Himeko had pressed a shopping list into Stelle's hand, elegant cursive letters spelling out fuel additives, engine lubricant, and something interesting for dinner that isn't offal beef stew again, along with credits and the gentle but unmistakable warning to stay out of trouble. March 7th had started to volunteer then abruptly changed her mind when she remembered Stelle's last supply run had involved haggling with a sentient fungus and somehow acquiring a live chicken, an action that resulted in a disappointed Welt with his hands on his hips and a very disbelieving Himeko. Sunday, having seen the chicken, had slowly backed out of the Parlor Car and made himself scarce for three weeks.
Next to the spaceport, the commercial district unfolded across three sprawling levels connected by grated catwalks that hummed under constant foot traffic. Vendors bellowed offers in overlapping tongues and holo-ads stuttered and shimmered above doorways like cheap auroras, while somewhere to their left, a merchant from the Xianzhou Alliance was locked in heated negotiation with a refugee from Belobog over currency conversion rates.
To Dan Heng, everything felt ordinary, routine, safe.
His instincts, however, refused to relax.
He'd catalogued the warning signs long ago: the subtle shift in Stelle's walk from purposeful stride to the lazy prowl of a predator who has scented prey, the faint tilt of her head, nostrils flaring almost imperceptibly and the way her yellow eyes narrowed, pupils widening as they fixed on something only she could sense.
His hand was already moving toward her elbow before she spoke.
"Stelle."
"Mm?" The reply sounded far too pure and innocent. She was surely planning something.
"We are proceeding directly to the hardware supplier. No deviations this time."
"Directly. Got it. Hardware is fascinating." Her gaze flicked to some stalls across from them and lingered. "Hey, random fact, did you know that a civilization's waste management habits are one of the most reliable indicators of its overall resource efficiency? I definitely read that somewhere."
"You absolutely did not."
"I might have, you don't know." She came to a complete stop in the middle of the street and the crowd parted around them like a river around stubborn boulders. "Look at that trash receptacle. It's hexagonal. That's advanced structural design. Very innovative."
Dan Heng tracked her line of sight. Nestled between a steaming noodle cart and a kiosk selling second-hand datapads was a large public waste unit, municipal gray and slightly overstuffed with trash remnants that fell on the ground in a halo around it.
To Stelle, it was clearly radiating destiny.
"No."
"I didn't even say…"
"No."
"You didn't even know what I was going to say."
"I know exactly what you were going to suggest. The answer remains no. We have a timetable to stick to."
He settled a hand on her shoulder and applied steady, guiding pressure, a technique refined over months of similar negotiations but Stelle countered by rooting herself to the street with the immovable calm of someone whose core contained an actual Stellaron.
"Just one quick look," she coaxed. "Thirty seconds, tops. In and out."
"Your thirty seconds have historically ranged from four minutes to half an hour. The last ‘quick look' involved twenty minutes inside a recycling compactor, one broken shortwave radio, and an elaborate theory about interstellar surveillance."
"That radio only picked up one frequency, Dan Heng. That's not normal. That's suspicious." She turned to face him fully, eyes wide and earnest under the perpetual mess of her hair. "What if there's something important in there? Evidence someone wanted destroyed? Or…or perfectly good snacks?"
"We have snacks on the Express."
"We have regulated snacks. Boring snacks. These could be treasure snacks."
Dan Heng sighed. "Food from the garbage is not treasure, it is a fast-track to listening to you throwing up at three in the morning."
If only reasoning with Stelle once her curiosity had latched onto a trash bin hadn't been like reasoning with a black hole. She was already gliding through the crowd, moving with the practiced evasion of someone who had dodged mara-struck soldiers and Antimatter Legionnaires alike.
Dan Heng followed at a measured pace, close enough to intervene when the inevitable happened but far enough that he could still pretend he had some form of dignity if she managed to dive headfirst into the trash before he could reach her.
She reached the bin first.
Gloved hands plunged in without hesitation and Stelle rummaged past layers of wrappers, cups, and unidentifiable sludge while the nearby noodle vendor shot her nervous glances. Stelle emerged triumphant, holding aloft half a wrapped pastry with the local chain branding visible, only mildly squashed, frosting still gleaming.
"Jackpot! Look, it's barely touched. The glaze is pristine."
"Stelle." His voice dropped into the low, preemptive register that usually stopped her mid-impulse. "That item was in the garbage. Return it immediately."
"But it's cake, Dan Heng. Free cake. There is no higher form of cake." She began peeling the wrapper with alarming efficiency.
His composure cracked.
A ripple of teal light flickered near his waist and a long, sinuous tail uncoiled from nothing, whipped forward, looped firmly around her waist and yanked her bodily backward three full feet.
Stelle yelped as she flew backwards with her arms pinwheeling and the pastry went airborne in a graceful arc. Time slowed, Dan Heng watched it tumble, watched Stelle's face track it like a predator tracking prey, watched her body already tensing for a lunge…
She bit it mid-air, snatching the pastry out of its trajectory with her teeth like a trained seal, somehow contorting her body even while his tail hauled her away from the bin. By the time her feet hit the ground her cheeks were puffed out, crammed full with cake, and she was already trying to chew.
Dan Heng stared. His brain stuttered, caught between horror and a very specific kind of exasperated awe that only Stelle could inspire.
She tried to grin around the mouthful and her expression radiated smug victory. Her jaw started working, trying to chew, to break it down enough to swallow before he could stop her…
Something in him snapped and he panicked.
He closed the distance in one stride and pne hand cupped her jaw, thumb pressing gently but insistently against her swollen cheek.
"Spit. It. Out."
She shook her head, chewing faster, eyes dancing with mischief. The message was clear: Delicious. No regrets.
His patience evaporated like mist under a high elder's gaze. The other hand rose, finger hooking the corner of her mouth with zero ceremony, scooping out the chewed ball of cake and flicking it away with a full-body shudder.
Stelle tracked the trajectory of her lost prize with open mourning. The instant his hold loosened, she lunged for the chewed, contaminated pastry on the ground.
That was the final straw.
His tail tightened possessively, drawing her flush against his chest and both hands rose to frame her face, grip firm, eyes blazing with something far beyond mere exasperation. For a heartbeat, the mask of calm archivist shattered completely, revealing the raw, protective alarm beneath.
"No." The single word cracked like a whip, carrying a low, inhuman resonance, the same tone he used on battlefields when she was one reckless step from disaster. "Have you completely abandoned self-preservation? That is garbage, Stelle. You could contract parasites, bacterial infections, viral agents we don't have vaccines for! Your digestive system is not a universal filtration unit. Do you understand what I just pulled out of your mouth? Do you have any comprehension of…"
He stopped and swallowed, realizing his hands were shaking where they gripped her face.
Stelle blinked up at him, slowly discerning that behind the anger, beneath the sharp tone and the physical restraint Dan Heng was afraid. Real, visceral fear, not fear of embarrassment or social impropriety but genuine concern for her safety.
The growl in his chest softened and shifted frequency, becoming something else, something she'd only heard a handful of times usually when she'd survived something she shouldn't have and he was standing over her checking for injuries:
A purr, low, agitated, rough-edged with stress, but definitely a purr.
The silence stretched just long enough for the moment to settle, then Stelle's grin returned, slow and utterly unrepentant.
"You purred," she whispered, voice soft with wonder and delight. "Just now. It was a really grumpy, worried purr, but it was definitely a purr."
Dan Heng froze.
The color drained from his face and horror dawned in his eyes when he realized how far his control had slipped: his tail, the growl, the purr. His hands were still cupping her face, fingers still sticky from the garbage cake, and his body was curved over hers like a shield in the middle of a public market where anyone could see, where he'd just physically extracted food from her mouth like she was a misbehaving pet…
The tail vanished. One moment it was there, solid and warm and coiled around her waist; the next, nothing and she stumbled slightly without its support. His hands dropped from her face like she'd burned him and he took three steps back, posture rigid, straightening his coat with sharp, mechanical motions. His fingers left faint frosting smears on the fabric.
"We're leaving." His voice was controlled. The mask slamming back into place with almost audible force. "Now. And you are rinsing your mouth with antiseptic solution the moment we return to the Express. Multiple times. And I am disinfecting my hands."
Stelle worked her jaw experimentally, tongue exploring her teeth. She could still taste the ghost of vanilla. "I didn't even get to swallow it."
"That was the point."
"It tasted fine."
"You had it in your mouth for approximately four seconds. That is not sufficient time to assess safety."
"Your fingers tasted worse."
His entire body went rigid and he didn't look at her, just grabbed her elbow and steered her away from the bin with the grip of someone handling a particularly suicidal explosive. "We are never speaking of this again."
"You scooped cake out of my mouth."
"Emergency extraction."
"With your bare hands."
"I did not have a utensil."
"You purred while doing it."
"Stelle."
"Boyfriend purr."
"I am going to leave you here."
"No you're not." She let him steer her, bumping her shoulder against his stiff arm, watching the rigid set of his shoulders slowly, incrementally, begin to relax. "You're too worried I'll find another trash can."
She allowed him to steer her away from the bin's gravitational pull, though not without one last, wistful glance over her shoulder. As they rejoined the flow of the crowd, she nudged his arm with her shoulder.
"You know, for someone whose past life apparently involved drinking moonlight and brooding poetically, you're weirdly intense about hygiene."
Dan Heng exhaled a long, weary sigh, the sound of patience stretched to its absolute limit, yet the hand that settled lightly at the small of her back and guided her firmly around the next suspiciously full waste receptacle did not move away for the rest of their walk.