“Son of a bitch!” he yelled, still rotating wildly and gripping his shins. Tucking into a ball to do so made him rotate faster, and it took a few attempts to grab the heavy chair again to steady himself. For all the alcohol he hadn’t been drinking, he certainly felt hung over. Was the room spinning, or was he spinning?

Sleep had never struck him as a terrifying activity, but last night had changed all of that. Being constantly in fear of the ship’s inertia sending furniture at you put a different perspective on “hitting the hay.” The hay was, instead, hitting him. Why there was also a bale of hay in his room he had no idea, but the cat seemed to like it. The cat also seemed to like clawing at his uniform and using him as a jumping-off point to get around the room. Rogers didn’t understand how the feline had adapted so well to zero gravity.

“Lieutenant Rogers, report to the bridge immediately. Lieutenant Rogers, report to the bridge immediately.”

“I’m trying!” Rogers yelled. He pushed off the chair but not quite at the right angle. He hit the space just above the door with his shoulder and bounced back off the wall, only to find himself flattened against the surface of his desk, a stapler—who used a stapler?—jabbing into his kidneys. The desk, at least, was easier to push off than the chair, and the next jump put him right at the room’s exit.

Gravity kicked in as soon as he passed through the threshold. Unfortunately, he did so sideways.

“You alright there, metalhead?”

Rogers looked up so fast, a sharp pain shot through his neck. Towering above him like an obelisk of beauty, the Viking stared down at him, shadowed dramatically by the lights overhead. If he squinted a little, he could have sworn there was a glow around the edge of her frame.

“Ah, hello,” he said.

Then, in a moment that would live in his memory forever, she extended a hand to him. He took it and was thrown to his feet as effortlessly as if she had been picking up a pillow from the floor of their vaulted-ceiling bedroom with two cathedral windows and tastefully decorated art that hung over their canopy bed.

And suddenly, he was standing in front of her. Not ready to receive a blow to the face, not bracing for the next cold insult. Just standing there. Was she smiling at him? No, she was chewing on a small piece of leather. But if he looked at it just right . . .

“Nice to see you?” he said brilliantly.

“What are you doing jumping out of doors?” she asked gruffly. She looked past him—over him—and swore. “Looks like my room after I’ve had a bad day.”

“I’d love to see your room,” Rogers blurted. “I mean, no, that’s not what I mean.” Yes, it was. “Are you having a bad day?”

She looked at him, thick brows coming together in something that might have been an amused expression. “As a matter of fact,” she said, “I’m having a pretty good day. Just got done briefing the admiral on combat readiness.”