Page 17 of Aries

Aries

“Stop humming.” Sharp words slice through our tiny cottage before I can catch them. The Manual swims before my eyes—weeks of forced proximity finally fraying my last nerve.

“Sorry.” Callie’s voice is clipped. She stops humming, but her fingers keep tapping against the table, sending tiny vibrations through the wood that set my teeth on edge.

After weeks in this tiny cottage, every small habit has become magnified. The way she hums while reading. How she never quite closes cabinet doors. The soft sounds she makes in her sleep that drive me crazy on the other side of that inadequate barrier pillow.

“Could you…” Gesturing at her tapping fingers, I try to keep my tone neutral. “I’m trying to concentrate.”

I couldn’t read or write when we overcame our masters and set off to fly across the galaxy to take control of our own fates. I can read fine now, thanks to Brianna’s teaching, but I need my full concentration.

Callie’s hand stills, but tension radiates from her rigid posture. “Heaven forbid I disturb your very important reading of instructions we’ve already memorized.”

“They change daily,” I remind her, though we both know that’s not really the issue. “And mistakes cost us marks.”

And three marks cost me my life. But I don’t say that. She’s doing me a favor, I remind myself.

“Right. Because you’re so concerned about precision.” The bitterness in her voice makes me look up sharply. “That’s why you spent ten standard minutes adjusting the barrier pillow last night. For precision.”

Heat floods my face at the memory. I had indeed fussed with the pillow, but only because her sleep-sounds were making it impossible to maintain proper distance. Not that I can explain that without making everything worse.

“The barrier is important,” I say stiffly. “The rules—”

“The rules!” She stands abruptly, pacing the small space. “Always the rules with you. Don’t touch, don’t talk about feelings unless we’re staring into that freaking mirror, don’t acknowledge that maybe there’s something happening here…”

“Callie—”

“No!” Whirling to face me, her eyes flash with anger and something else that makes odd, confusing emotions ripple through me. “I’m tired of pretending. Tired of dancing around each other in this tiny space, following all these rules while ignoring the elephant in the room.”

“I don’t know what an elephant is but I understand what you’re implying, so what elephant would that be?” My own temper rises to meet hers. “The fact that we’re trapped here? That your misplaced sense ofobligation—”

“Obligation?” She laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “Is that what you think this is? That I’m just fulfilling some duty to one of the crew?”

“Isn’t it?” Standing to face her, I force myself to maintain proper distance despite every instinct screaming at me to move closer. “You’ve made it clear how much you hate being trapped here with someone you can barely stand to be around.”

“I never said that!”

“You didn’t have to! Fiveannumsof avoiding me made it pretty clear how you felt.”

“HowIfelt?” Her voice cracks. “You’re the one who pushed me away! Who built those walls so high I couldn’t even see if the person I knew was still in there somewhere.”

Before I can respond, a chime cuts through the tension. The Committee member arrives, their multifaceted eyes taking in our confrontational poses.

“Conflict has arisen,” they intone. “The Resolution Ritual must be performed.”

“Now?” Callie’s voice holds equal parts frustration and disbelief.

“Now.” They gesture to the meditation corner. “Please assume the position.”

The “position” turns out to be sitting back-to-back, close enough to feel each other’s heat but not quite touching. The ritual requires sharing our deepest fears about the conflict while maintaining this almost-contact.

“You may not separate until resolution is achieved. Failure to achieve satisfactory resolution will result in a mark against you,” the Committee member adds before fading away.

Silence stretches between us, broken only by our slightly ragged breathing. The heat of Callie’s back radiates against mine, making it hard to focus.

“This is ridiculous,” she mutters. “We’re adults. We shouldn’t need—”

“I’m afraid of wanting you.” The words escape before I can stop them, shocking us both into silence. The ritual compels truth, much like the Mirror did, but this feels more intimate somehow. More raw, but somewhat easier when I don’t have to look into her eyes and see her reaction, her rejection.

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