Friends?
Awkward didn’t cover it.
Sunlight stabbed through the cottage window like a nosy neighbor, revealing every dried...essence splatter on the headboard, blankets, and my goddamn shirt.
Drake was already up, thankfully. He staggered toward the tiny bathroom, rubbing sleep-grit from his eyes as he muttered something about "feeling hungover and shotgunned" before the door clicked shut behind him.
I scrambled into the kitchenette trying to look busy—anything to avoid facing last night’s forensic evidence. Coalition-supplied ramen packs sat neatly stacked beside the induction stove.
Perfect. Something idiot-proof.
While waiting for the water to hiss violently in the pot, I kept stealing glances toward the bathroom door. Steam curled from beneath it.
Drake’s deep voice leaked out—singing some filthy sea shanty—as I dumped noodles and flavor powder into boiling water. My hands shook while stirring the broth. How could I possibly look him in the eye after tasting his—
"Smells good," Drake mused suddenly, towel slung low on his hips as he leaned against the bathroom doorframe.
I jumped, nearly dropping the stainless chopsticks. "Fuck. Yeah. Coalition-brand 'ramen'." My voice tensed.
Shit. Couldn't look at his face—not yet. Instead, I stared at the broth bubbles popping angrily in the pot. "Hungry?"
Drake snorted, raking damp fingers through his messy hair. "Starved. That was..." He paused, eyes scanning mine. "...A messy first lesson." He sniffed the air. "Still smells like me everywhere. Fuck."
He moved past me—close enough that his hip brushed my back—and slumped onto one of the two flimsy wooden chairs at the tiny dining table. The wood creaked under his weight as he sprawled backward. "I'll have the ramen, princess. Coalition slop."
"Chicken-flavored disappointment," I grumbled, scooping sludge into two ceramic bowls before sliding one to him.
Drake snatched his bowl immediately, slurping a scorching mouthful without flinching. "Fuck, tastes like salted cardboard," he grunted, wiping his chin with the back of his hand.
"Yeah, that's Coalition 'hospitality,'" I stirred my own lukewarm sludge. The noodles were already congealing. "Disgusting."
My gaze drifted toward the empty cabinets. "We need groceries. Actual food." A flush crept up my neck as I blurted, "Should... should I go grab something?"
Drake paused mid-slurp, lowering his bowl. His eyes—suddenly sharp—scanned my face, pinning me with unexpected concern.
"Alone? Because I have to work." He frowned, genuine worry knitting his brow. "Laki’s tiny but dense. Unfamiliar turf. You sure you can navigate?"
My eyes widened. "Work?" I choked out, noodles halfway to my mouth. "Already?"
The Coalition bonding retreat’s brochure screamed "mandatory relaxation"—not labor camps.
Drake shrugged, finishing his ramen with a grimace. "Laki island rules," he mumbled around a mouthful of noodles. "Zevars gotta chip in labor hours. Signed the packet yesterday remember? Gotta report to the labor center each morning."
Ohhh… I squared my shoulders—maybe a bit too dramatically—and waved my chopsticks dismissively.
"It’s fine, Drake. I’ll manage on my own. It’s just… food. Not a warzone."
Drake grunted, unconvinced, and shoved his empty bowl aside before levering himself upright with a groan. He stalked to the duffels by the door—still unpacked from yesterday's trip—and rummaged through crumpled fabric until he unearthed a worn gray hoodie.
"Here," he rasped, tossing it at me. "Wrap up in this." His eyes narrowed, tracking the nervous twitch of my fingers.
"You're wandering out there smelling fresh." A muscle flexed in his jaw. "Not nearly enough like me yet."
His implication was clear—an unclaimed Uvar was vulnerable. Prey.
I pulled the hoodie over my head, instantly drowning in Drake’s musk. It settled heavily on my shoulders.
He gave me a leather watch—thick strap, digital dial—and tied it onto my wrist before I could protest.
"Panic button on this side," he pointed at a tiny nub beneath the dial. "Press it once—alert goes straight to Coalition patrols and my comms." His calloused thumb traced the leather strap tightening against my thin wrist—claiming territory without words. "GPS always active."
"Yeah, I get it," I tugged the hoodie sleeves past my wrists as Drake dressed.
I cleaned up the ramen mess while he pulled on fresh jeans and a Coalition-issue gray t-shirt stretched taut across his shoulders.
Once he was dressed, I sauntered over to him on the front porch. Morning light filtered through palm fronds, dappling his face.
"So," I drawled, leaning against the doorframe. "You still worried?"
Drake’s gaze swept me. "Yeah. Controlled environment or not, princess." He stepped closer, crowding my space. His knuckle brushed under my chin. "Bonded or not, Zevars are still Zevars."
I rolled my eyes hard. "Yes. I get it—your scent’s all over me, the panic button’s ready." I shoved his chest playfully. "Now are you going to work or not? Stop hovering like a fucking helicopter dad."
Drake’s mouth twisted—half smirk, half grimace—as he caught my wrist. "Yeah yeah..." He leaned in, breath warm against my ear, voice drodaed to a low and gravelly tone. "Daddy will see you in the afternoon."
Heat flooded my cheeks instantly. But I didn’t recoil. Instead, I surged forward, pressing my lips softly against his. Not demanding, not hungry—just a gentle press. His stubble scraped my skin rough, and his grip tightened briefly before releasing me.
"Be safe," he patted my cheeks twice, then turned and strode down the cobblestone path leading toward the village center.
Slightly downhill from our cottage, another pair stood tangled near their doorway—one Zevar with his Uvar pressed against the wall, kissing him deep and possessive before peeling away to join Drake. A fresh blush crept up my neck.
Fuck, am I that sappy?
Yet my fingers drifted absently to my lips, still tingling from Drake’s rough stubble.
The uvar saw me lingering near our cottage's porch and sauntered over. His grin was wide, infectious—like he’d just discovered the island’s best-kept secret.
"Hey," he called out, voice smooth as honey. "Name's Bret. Cottage six."
His Zevar—already halfway down the path—shot a sharp glance back, brows furrowed. Bret just waved him off, unconcerned.
"Relax, Bram! Just being neighborly!" He turned back to me, those bright eyes sparkling with mischief. "And you're?"
"Levi," I waved vaguely at Drake's retreating form. "My Zevar's Drake."
Bret flashed a dazzling grin, gesturing toward the winding path downhill. "Been here four weeks already—got the sunburn to prove it." He winked, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. "Want a tour? Got nothing better to do than watch paint dry before Bram gets back."
I shrugged. "Sure... Need to buy some supplies anyway. Might as well."
Truthfully, I was relieved—Bret’s easy charm felt like a life raft in this new place.
Bret beamed, bouncing on his toes. "Great! I'll wash up a bit—meet at my door in twenty?" He practically skipped back to his cottage, humming a cheerful tune.
Alone again, I slipped inside ours. First came Drake’s hoodie—tossed onto the messy bed—and then my stiffened shirt, followed by my shorts. All landed in a crumpled heap near the bathroom.
Laundry later, I thought absently, scratching my belly. Definitely later.
I padded into the bathroom. The shower head wheezed to life after three aggressive knob-twists, sputtering lukewarm water. I squeezed cheap Coalition shampoo into my palm—pine-scented—and scrubbed furiously. Lather slid down my thighs, washing away dried sweat, stray flakes of cum, and the phantom taste of nectar still ghosting my tongue.
After that, I grabbed a scratchy Coalition towel and dried off fast—dabbing my skin pink and shivering slightly in the humid air. I walked back into the cottage, dripping water onto the stone floor. Time for fresh clothes.
I crouched down beside my duffel, rummaging for something clean—a sea green tee and a pair of shorts—and pulled them on quickly. Not forgetting Drake's hoodie and that panic-button watch.
I slipped out again, locked the cottage door behind me with the heavy brass key and tugged Drake’s hoodie tighter around me.
Bret was already waiting on his porch, leaning against the doorframe. He’d swapped his sleep attire for crisp linen pants and a loose, button-down shirt that fluttered in the breeze.
"Ready, Levi?" he called out, pushing off and sauntering toward me.
"Market?" I asked—a casual deflection, unsure what else to say.
Bret grinned, nodding enthusiastically. "Market it is." He stepped toward the winding cobblestone path snaking downhill toward Laki Village. "Best place to grab supplies—and gossip."
I started following, Bret matching my slower pace effortlessly.
"So, Coalition dumped Bram and me here a month ago," he began casually, kicking a loose pebble downhill. "Thought it'd be prison-lite, right?" He snorted. "Turns out, Laki's basically paradise if you ignore the mandatory morning labor." He turned to look at the lush cliffs plunging into the turquoise sea.
"Zevar crews haul timber or repair docks—hard labor. Uvars? We get 'bonding support duties.'" He rolled his eyes. "Meaning: fetch groceries, wash clothes, gossip at the market..." A wicked grin spread. "Oh, and sneak off to hidden coves if your Zevar's not too wrecked afterward."
I blinked. "Coves?"
"Yeah. Tiny spots carved out between cliffs. Bram found one on his fishing trips. No drones. No Coalition eyes." He winked, nudging my shoulder. "Perfect for privacy."
It didn't take long for us to hit the market square and it was...chaos—stalls crammed together, the air layered with fish guts and overripe fruit.
Urghhhh.
Bret grabbed my wrist, dragging me past baskets of weird purple vegetables and barrels of salted fish. "Come on, Levi! The good spice vendor leaves before ten!"
My nose wrinkled at the overpowering stench of pickled sea slugs—holy fuck, why?—but Bret shoved through the crowd like he owned the place, grinning back at me.
"Fuck, Bret, you could've warned me," I choked out, covering my nose as we squeezed past the stall. The Zevar vendor grinned toothlessly, holding up a jar of gelatinous purple blobs.
"Delicacy!" he cackled.
My stomach churned. Yeah, that sea slug didn't exactly scream 'eat me.' The slimy, translucent chunks floating in murky liquid looked like something dredged from a septic tank.
"Don't worry, Levi, I'm not subjecting you to kraken jerky."
He navigated the chaotic market stalls like a pro, weaving between baskets of vibrant green tubers and towers of woven palm-leaf hats. The overpowering fish stench faded, replaced by something warm and complex—woodsy, peppery, with a hint of something floral.
The spice vendor's stall stood nestled between a basket-weaver and a fishmonger shouting about "fresh catch!"
Bret gestured proudly. "Here—Mikael makes the blends himself."
"Hey again Bret!" Mikael grinned, leaning across sacks of dried bark and jars of crimson powder. His weathered face crinkled at the corners – definitely Uvar, smelling faintly of cloves and sea salt. "Who's your friend?"
"This is Levi," Bret announced, nudging me forward. "Newbie. Needs supplies."
Mikael’s eyes scanned me head to toe, lingering on Drake’s oversized hoodie swallowing my frame and the leather watch clasped tight around my wrist.
"Come, what do you need?" Mikael asked.
Uhhh... okay, think quick.
"Salt?" I mumbled. "Pepper? Maybe... uh... something not too spicy?"
Mikael chuckled, scooping coarse salt from an open sack. "Basic Coalition ration tastes like ash without flavor." He slid a jar of deep red flakes toward Bret. "Here—Smoked Pepper Blend. Your usual."
He pivoted to me, holding up two small woven pouches. "For you—Sea Salt Crystals." He tapped the second pouch. "And Wild Thyme Dust. Sweetens everything."
I hesitated. "How much?"
"Twelve credits," Mikael said casually, pouring another pouch of something.
Twelve credits? I froze.
How the fuck was I supposed to pay? My eyes darted uselessly around the stall—no payment scanners in sight. Mikael just stared expectantly, salt pouch extended.
Bret pointed to my wrist, tapping his own identical leather strap.
Ahh.
I tapped my watch clumsily against Mikael’s outstretched wrist unit. A soft ping echoed—and Mikael nodded, satisfied, before tossing the pouches toward me.
"Your watch connected to your Zevar's account," Bret explained. "Check the digital face—swipe sideways."
I fiddled with the strap—click—and the screen shifted. The credit balance glowed: 33,627,330₡.
I blinked, counting the zeros. Then counted them again.
Bret leaned over my shoulder and gasped.
"Holy shit," he whispered, eyes wide as saucers. "Your Zevar’s loaded enough to buy this island."
I stared dumbly at the screen—33,627,330₡—the numbers burning my retinas. I knew Drake had money—the suburban house, the hover and non hover cars, the fucking silk sheets I'd nap in—but this?
This was fuck you money.
My finger jabbed the screen so fast it blurred—click—and the insane number vanished.
act normal, act normal
Bret didn't say a fucking word about the balance—just shot me this sideways glance that screamed your secret’s rotting with me. Or maybe I was hallucinating. Either way, he smoothly pivoted toward Mikael’s spice racks.
"Levi, you want that turmeric jar?" His voice stayed light, but the tension in his shoulders hadn’t melted yet. Mine either.
"Uhhh—let's buy something else," I blurted.
Bret nodded instantly, already shoving the turmeric jar back onto Mikael's shelf. "Yeah—fresh meat? Down past the fruits—"
But as I turned to bolt, Mikael cleared his throat sharply. "Hold up."
My blood froze. Shit shit shit. Did he see the balance? Hear Bret's gasp? He leaned across the stall, voice low to a whisper.
"You smell clean, Levi." Mikael's nostrils flared subtly. "That hoodie’s draped in Zevar musk, yes… but you?" Mikael inhaled deeply. "No pheromone weave." He tilted his head, assessing me like livestock. "Are you still unbonded?"
My throat tightened. My eyes flicked to Bret, who suddenly found the spice labels fascinating.
I didn't say anything. Just stared at Mikael. He sighed—almost like he pitied me—and turned slightly, scribbling something on a torn piece of paper.
He shoved it toward me, his long-nailed finger tapping the name written there: Seth.
"Down by the old lighthouse," he muttered low, eyes darting around the market crowd. "Tell Mikael sent you. He... fixes things." His gaze locked on mine—unreadable.
Fix what?
"Okay... thank you." My fingers clamped around the crumpled paper. Unsure how to react to that—or Mikael’s pitying stare—I shoved the paper deep into Drake’s hoodie pocket without meeting Bret’s eyes.
After that awkward encounter, Bret steered us away from Mikael’s stall, pretending nothing happened. He chattered about the fishmonger’s new catch as I scanned the vibrant market stalls.
Remembering the salty cardboard sludge we ate for breakfast, I decided Drake deserved real food. So I spared no fucking expense.
Found the baker first—grabbed thick sourdough loaves crusted with sesame seeds, still warm from the oven.
Next, the butcher—boldly demanded his fattiest ribeye cuts. Drake worked manual labor here—he’d need meat.
Lastly, potatoes—a sack of knobbly purple tubers Bret swore roasted up creamy—and real milk and cheese from a stooped elder Zevar selling goat cheese.
We weren't lingering. In no time, we walked back toward our cottage, arms straining under paper bags filled with groceries. The cobblestones felt hotter now, midday sun beating down, and Drake’s hoodie felt sticky to my skin.
Bret stayed unnervingly silent beside me, until—
"So..." He dragged the word out, sharpening his tone like a knife. "Mikael's right about the unbonded thing?" His eyes drilled into my hoodie-swallowed frame.
I sighed—my shoulders sagging under the grocery bags—and faced him fully. "Yeah... I haven't slicked yet." The confession spilled bitter on my tongue. "Dry as yesterday's toast."
Bret didn't flinch. He just adjusted his own bags, kicking pebbles to the side. "Oh Lev, that's super common!" His voice softened—no judgment, just practical warmth.
"Especially with Uvars dropped here straight after their birthday. Mine took six days post-turning." He flashed a quick smile. "Bram damn near gnawed through our cottage doorframe pacing, but..." He shrugged casually. "It'll rush in when your body's damn ready."
Glancing sideways at his easy confidence, I blurted it out without thinking. "My birthday hit two months ago."
Bret’s steps faltered.
Crap. Why'd I say that? Now he'd stare—pitying, awkward—just like Drake's colleagues back home whispering "late bloomer" behind cupped hands.
But Bret just clicked his tongue. "Two months?" He shifted his grocery sack, leaning closer so his next words brushed my ear like smoke. "Have you seen the doctor yet?"
My laugh sounded hollow—forced. "Of course I have." I shifted my own grocery. "Kept saying I’d get slick in one month."
Bret’s silence prickled my skin worse than Drake’s stubble.
"Now? I won’t fucking return." My knuckles whitened around the paper handles. "Let them prove me defective? Fuck that—they’d cage me as a test subject. Scalpel-happy Coalition docs will slice me open to see what’s broken inside."
Bret stopped walking entirely. "Mikael’s... suggestion," he frowned, glancing at my pocket where the crumpled note lay hidden. "You actually considering that?"
The paper felt like a hot coal against my thigh. Seth. Fixes things. What the fuck did that mean? Drug? Surgery? Something Coalition would shoot me for just whispering about?
"Don’t know," I muttered, staring down at my sneakers.
"Look," Bret said after a beat, "if you decide to follow Mikael’s lead... I’ll go with you." He shrugged when I shot him a sharp glance. "Moral support or whatever."
"Why?"
"Dunno." He flashed a quick grin—real, not forced—as we turned onto the shaded path snaking uphill toward our cottages. "You seem cool. And..." His voice dropped conspiratorially. "Uvars stick together out here."
I didn't answer—just held my grocery bags tighter. Bram’s cottage loomed first, its faded green door shut tight against the midday heat.
Bret paused.
“Just don’t rush things,” he suggested, leaning against the stone gate circling his cottage. “Talk to Drake tonight—see what he thinks.”
His grin softened, just a fraction. “Whatever you decide? I’ll be there.”
I swallowed hard. “Thank you, Bret.” The words felt unfamiliar—like chewing gravel. “We barely know each other and…” I trailed off.
Fuck, gratitude scraped raw against my throat. Since my eighteenth birthday—since the Coalition docs stamped “non-compliant” on my file—trust felt like a rusted knife jammed between ribs. Yet this sunburned stranger offered backup without flinching.
“Don’t sweat it, Lev,” he said, nudging my shoulder effortlessly. “We’re neighbours now.” He shifted the sacks to one arm, sticking out a soft hand like sealing some unspoken pact. “Friends.”
I gripped it fast—brief, firm—before pulling away too quickly. “Friends.”
To get in touch with the author, send them an email.
