When I lift a hand to knock on the ebony door, it swings open, revealing a Boss who isn’t smirking or leering. He’s surprised, as though he didn’t expect me to show up. “Hey,” he says.

“Hi,” I return.

“You look…” His eyes rake down and up my figure, settling on my eyes. “Devastating.”

“Devastating?” Interesting choice of adjective. “Is that a compliment?”

“Of the highest degree.” And the smirk is back.

“You look…”—he’s clad in a white button-down shirt, black suit, black slacks, and a tie matching the color of my dress. The blue brings out his eyes, and honestly, he’s breathtaking to a fault. I can barely focus—“like you.”

“Is that a compliment?” He smiles.

“You don’t need compliments.”

He studies me for a moment then sticks out his elbow. I loop my arm through his, and we begin walking together to what I assume is our restaurant. My skin tingles. “I apologize if I come across as hubristic and glib.” He states, “I swear I don’t mean to be. I think I’ve become used to getting everything I want. We got off on the wrong foot, and I sincerely regret that.”

“I agree. Trying to kiss me after threatening to kill Timour crosses the line just a bit.”

He frowns. “I’m not used to rejection.”

I’m sure he isn’t. “Doesn’t make it okay.”

He swallows, eyes softening. “I know. Which is why I want to start over. Introduce ourselves properly this time.”

Eyes follow us as we pass multiple French doors and enter a sushi restaurant on the same floor. Is this the first time Cosmics are witnessing Boss on a date? Why do I feel underqualified?

The receptionist leads us to a private room in the back of the ornate restaurant, where real fish blink at us from the indigo and magenta aquarium against the far wall. Angelfish, guppies, lionhead cichlids, and my personal favorite—neon tetras. Neon tetras are small fish with a white underbelly, a red stripe through the middle, and above that, an iridescent blue stripe reflecting light.

A blue that eerily resembles Boss’ eyes.

I change my mind. The Siamese fighting fish are my new favorite. Purple scales with flaming red fins twice the length of their bodies. There are several of them in the tank, and none of the fish are attacking each other thanks to genetic engineering. Saltwater fish now survive in freshwater and vice versa, but more crucially, designer fish are no longer aggressive. Humans have removed undesirable traits and inserted genes favorable to consumers, kind of like how we bred the wolf out of the puppy. Floppy ears for the win.

Boss and I sit on pillows opposite each other, our legs resting in a hole carved into the floor. The receptionist closes the shoji sliding doors, sectioning us off from the rest of the restaurant. We browse the menu, and the waiter arrives to take our order.

When the guy leaves, Boss furrows his brows. “You’re vegetarian?” he asks.

“Yep,” I answer, then sip some water.

“And you didn’t tell me?”

“I didn’t think it would be important.”

“Well,” he laughs, “it is if I’m taking you to a sushi restaurant.”

I shrug. “I love sushi.”

“You like vegetables wrapped in rice,” he states stoically.

“Yep. That’s the definition of ‘sushi.’ Vinegared rice is the only required ingredient.”

He opens his mouth to argue, but closes it, tilting his head in thought. Rolling his eyes, he says, “Oh, right, ‘sashimi’ is raw fish.”

I nod and smile.

“We’re five minutes in, and I’ve already made a fool of myself,” he asserts, shaking his head.

“No, you’re fine.”

“What do you like to do during your free time?”

“You mean when I’m not a hostage?”

He smirks. “Precisely.”

“I run, hike, paint.”

“What do you usually paint?”

My mother. “A lot of things: Flowers, cities, supernovas, black holes, aliens…”

His eyes light up. “Aliens? What do they look like?”

“I should clarify, I paint alien civilizations. I envisage there’s a society out there able to turn back time, commodify the fourth dimension, and capture all the energy from their sun.”

“Could be us someday,” he suggests.

I laugh. “Maybe.”

“You don’t think so?”

“I think we’ll blow ourselves up first. AI will outlast us.”

He tilts his head from side to side and gestures around the room. “Have more credence in the human race. We’ve made it this far.”

“Sushi on a turnstile in space. At least we’ve got our priorities straight.” And then I wink, not something I typically do, but I’m pleased when Boss’ lips unconsciously part. I wager he didn’t foresee that.

The waiter brings our food and chilled sake, and we pause the conversation. Boss pours a cup of sake for me, and I pour one for him, but I don’t drink the alcohol. Neither does he.

The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

We’ve inhaled half the food before I ask, “What about you? Any hobbies?”

“Racing,” he responds.

“Like track? Or hovercrafts?”

“Spacecraft racing. I love anything competitive, really.”

I nod my head, unsurprised.

“I’d like you to come actually,” he continues.

I raise my eyebrows.

“We have a huge racing event for Halloween. I’d like it if you came and watched.”

That’s almost four months away. I aim to be off Titan and back on Earth by then, but I cover up what I’m thinking with a wry smile. “I’ll consider it.”

“That’s all I want.” And he gives me a look that makes my heart skip a beat. “Do you have any pet peeves?”

“Well, for starters, hubristic and glib Cosmics.”

“Oh, yeah?” he teases.

“Yeah.” I bite my lip. “Superficiality, generalized statements, cheaters, bad coffee—”

“Did somebody cheat on you?”

“Oh, no,” I reply. “I don’t mean that kind of cheating—well, cheating on your partner is patently terrible—but what I am referring to are those who cheat on exams, fabricate their resume, et cetera. It’s unfair to people who put in the effort.”

“Not everyone can be a prodigy, you know.”

I scoff. “Add that to my list of pet peeves—labeling me a ‘prodigy.’ Half of it is consistent work, half of it is pure luck. Trust me, I was born an idiot.”

“Really?” Boss leans forward, elbow on the table, chin in one hand. “Pray tell.”

I sip water for a while. “When I was a baby, I could only crawl backwards. I never learned how to crawl forwards. When I was three, I went to a park with my dad and attempted to feed a goose bread. It bit me, and I cried. Ten minutes later, I tried again. Hence,”—I point to my forehead—“idiot child.”

He shrugs. “I disagree. Crawling backwards signifies your individuality, and trying to feed the goose again after failing the first time exhibits your perseverance.”

“I take it back. You’re the imbecile.”

“Aw, she’s giving me nicknames already. Can I call you ‘princess’?”

“Absolutely not.”

“You’re right. My bad. ‘Princess’ is often mistaken for a derogatory word. How about ‘empress’?”

“Let’s stick with ‘Ailee.’”

He chuckles. “Yes, ma’am.”

“What are your pet peeves?” I wonder.

“Micro-managing, passive-aggressive behavior, attention whores.”

“Most embarrassing thing you’ve ever done?”

“Ooh, we’re getting into the deep stuff.” His eyes flit to the ceiling as he contemplates. “No, I can’t say that.”

“Oh, come on,” I urge, “don’t you want to know my most embarrassing moment?”

“Fine, you sold me.” He smirks, but it vanishes. “After our… exchange in the hallway the other day… I went back to my office and… threw a perfectly good bottle of scotch into the wall.” One of his eyes shuts as if the memory aches. “I had to get the rug dry-cleaned.”

“I find it difficult to believe that was your most humiliating experience.”

Evading my gaze, he shrugs. “Fresh wound.”

Seconds go by, and he doesn’t ask me the same question, so I start the story, “Senior year of college, I notified all my friends on campus that I was participating in a yearlong experiment to study how isolation affects a person’s psyche. In reality, it was an excuse to elude hangouts with people for three-six-five days.”

He snaps out of his daze in a burst of laughter. “You’re the literal embodiment of introversion. You don’t seem like an introvert though.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Maybe I was simply burnt out after partying for two years straight.”

“Your ‘embarrassing moment’ doesn’t sound too bad to me either.”

“It was more humiliating to myself,” I explain. “You’re the first person I’ve told, so now I am ashamed all over again.”

“Well, I’m honored to be the first.” He smiles ingenuously, and my breath catches. “Where do you see yourself five years from now?”

A loaded query. “That question is an abyss compared to mine.”

“Deliberate.”

“Depends on whether or not I’m alive.”

The unguarded smile distorts into his signature smirk. “Assuming you are…”

“Honestly… I haven’t thought about it. I should be okay financially; I’ve been saving up ever since I began working, but… in terms of plans, I don’t exactly have any.”

“No goals? No aspirations?”

“Currently, I’m a Technical Sergeant in the IF. Optimistically in five years, I’ll be a Commander—or a Captain, if I’m lucky.”

“You want to work for the IF the rest of your life?”

“I don’t know about that, but for now… I like it. I’m relatively happy there, and I believe my job is important.”

“So you have money, you love what you do, and you’re good at your job.”

“Yes. It’s exhilarating too. Sometimes you get kidnapped, free dinners with sociopaths…”

He leans back, examining me. “You consider me a sociopath?”

“I’m still deciding,” I declare, taking another bite of my food. “What about you? Five years from now.”

Shifting in his seat, he closes the distance between us, his face stopping twenty centimeters away and startling me. What is he doing? He dips his voice low, confessing in a husky tone, “I’ve wanted to tell you since I first saw you: You have the most beautiful eyes.”

I roll said beautiful eyes and retort, “Now you’re just trawling for compliments.”

“What?”

“Seriously?” I inquire, exasperated. “You’re going to make me say it?”

Shortening the distance between us to ten centimeters, he breathes, “Yes, please.”

His presence both unnerves and thrills me. No doubt he hears my heart beating and my neck pulsing with highly pressurized blood. “Your eyes look like stars,” I tell him. “Vivid, irradiant stars.”

One corner of his lips twitches up. “Can they make you do anything I want?”

I look down at our three-quarters-eaten dinner and back into his spellbinding irises. “You can by all means try.”

His pupils dilate, and he whispers, “Kiss me.”

Under a compulsion, I lean in, my lips beseeching for a taste of his. I breathe in his scent of caramel and chestnuts and close my eyes. We’re a millimeter apart, and I hear him suck air between his teeth.

Then I pull away, sitting upright in my seat, announcing, “Oh, I guess it didn’t work.”

His eyes are still open, gaping at me dumbfounded. “You—I—you’re impossible.”

“Also, I’m going to need you to take the mannequin back. It’s creepy.”

He shakes his head, not in answer but to recover. “Leave it outside your door. I’ll send someone to retrieve it. What about the dress?”

“I’m keeping the dress.”

He grins, coolheaded once more. “Glad you approve of it.”

I approach the next question hesitantly, “What’s your name?”

“Boss.”

“Your real name.”

He’s quiet for a few seconds, then says, “Huxley.”

“Huxley…?”

He smiles. “Just Huxley.”

“Can I call you by your name?”

“Only if I get to call you ‘empress.’”

I laugh. “No deal.”

He tilts his head back and looks at me sideways. “Yeah, alright, you can call me ‘Huxley,’ but only when we’re alone.” His eyes flit to my plate. “Are you finished?”

“Yes.”

“You want dessert?”

“No.”

“Great, let’s go.” He jumps up, seizes my hand, and tows me out of the restaurant.