Shit, I think, though I keep the smile plastered on. There’s only one place in the ship where you can see much of open space, and that’s the viewing panel in the cockpit. I’m not usually keen on bringing people into my personal space… especially people I’m looking to impress. Because, as much as I love the cockpit, years of spilled drinks and long, sweaty shifts at the wheel have taken their toll on the cramped little room. It’s not exactly a good spot to woo someone.

“All right,” I say, trying to muster up swagger despite the awkward pause. “The cockpit has the best view. Let me get it set up.” I back away from her, holding up a hand. “Five minutes.”

Thankfully, Shey doesn’t question what “setting up the cockpit” actually means. I’m grateful that she’s not experienced with spacecrafts, because anyone more familiar with one would instantly smell the bullshit on that statement. She follows me to the middle deck, where the smell of the meal Corvus is cooking makes my stomach rumble impatiently. If it smells this good, he must have started at least an hour ago, while I was busy practicing with Shey. I scoot past the kitchen with her, ignoring Corvus’s displeased look, and duck into the cockpit while Shey waits at the end of the hallway outside.

There isn’t much I can do to spruce up the space in five minutes, but at least it gives me some time to spray it down with compressed air, pick up shards of glass I must have missed in my last cleaning, and scrub at some of the worst stains with a wet rag. I make sure the bottle strapped under my chair is secure and well hidden, take a deep breath, and go to fetch Shey.

“It’s ready,” I say. “Time for your first Nibiran experience. Shut your eyes.”

She rolls her eyes at my theatrics before obediently shutting them. I take both of her gloved hands and lead her to the cockpit, my pulse rising as we approach. It’s ridiculous, really; I feel like a teenager bringing her crush to her room for the first time. But the cockpit, cramped and reeking of old whiskey though it may be, is a part of me, much more than the tiny bunk I spend my nights in. It’s the place I feel the most at home… and the most myself. Letting her in feels like I’m baring a part of my soul to her—and, worst of all, I’m not sure if she really understands how much it means to me. What if she laughs? Makes a flippant comment? Will my heart be able to take it?