Binary Systems [Complete, Slice-of-Life Sci-Fi Romance]

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Karen: Unspool'd Threads is a ridiculous name.

Gordon: They launder, curate, stock, and tailor my whole wardrobe!

Karen: But whyyyy are you so bad at saving money?!

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November 28th, 2090, about 6:30 pm MST, Montana City.

Hiram stood in the doorway of Gordon's guest suite like he owned the place—which, technically, he did. Eyes sharp, suit immaculate, tone Saharian.

"Dinner begins at seven," he said. "Deirdre is here–try not to embarrass yourself."

Karen didn't flinch from the looming billionaire in the doorway. She strode forward to block him, all lean defiance.

"You've got all the time in the world with him now," she said, calm but sharp. "That's what you wanted, right? Full oversight of your grown son's future?"

Hiram's expression didn't move, but his silence said enough.

"Maybe you could try having boundaries like a real person. Give him a weekend. Or a private minute without checking whether he's shaping into your idea of a perfect heir."

Hiram tilted his head, considering her. Bemused. Amused, even.

Then he turned and walked away without another word, the echo of his expensive shoes crisp against the hallway's polished wood.

Karen let out a slow breath. "I can't stand that man."

Gordon blinked at her. "You didn't have to—"

"Yeah, I did," she interrupted. "Now finish getting dressed. We've got fifteen minutes."

–––❖–––

Across the room, Gordon stood before the full-length mirror, pretending the tension in the air hadn't doubled the moment Hiram left them alone together. Like the kiss that morning hadn't happened.

But it had.

Soft. Confident. Right at the door. A casual "see you tonight" press of lips, no hesitation. It had short-circuited his brain more than it should have.

He'd kissed her back.

Now they were here. The AI had dressed him in a three-piece suit of black wool, but the shirt was a dark, gunmetal gray. A subtle, vine-like embroidery in metallic thread snaked up the lapels of his blazer, catching the light. He adjusted the high-contrast vest, but it was going to be tight no matter what he did. Part of the look, he guessed. He shuffled in place to center himself in the outfit, feeling the reassuring weight of the holstered pistol against his hip beneath the jacket.

"Stuck," Karen said, her voice tight with effort.

He turned. Her dress—or what looked like a two-piece set—was stunning. The fabric was a textured metallic hematite with a subtle texture that looked like dragon scales, sleeveless, with a high collar that hugged her throat. A sharp, crescent-shaped cutout separated the top from the high-waisted skirt, baring a strip of toned stomach. The skirt itself was long, but it was split on both sides, the slits running clear to her hips. She turned her back towards him in a mute ask for assistance, her hair already pulled into a severe, high ponytail, falling in golden waves down her back. It reminded him of Claire's 'tough persona' hairdo. Perhaps that was on purpose.

He gripped the tiny, cold metal tab on the back of the top, but it wouldn't move—he had to brace his other hand against her spine to get the stubborn zipper started. Her skin was warm under his palm.

"Try not to zip my hair in, please," she told him. He carefully guided the zipper up to the nape of her neck. He let his hand linger for a second, almost said something, then turned back to the mirror.

Still no banter.

It was the quiet that told him everything. Karen wasn't pretending nothing had happened. She wasn't ignoring it. She was just. . . easing him through it. Giving him space.

You don't have to say anything, the kiss had said. You don't even have to be okay. I'm still here.

Guilt ached inside him.

He looked over at Karen. She was applying a slash of bold, dark red lipstick, her movements sharp and precise. Armoring up. Getting more impatient by the minute, but controlling herself.

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

"Wow. Okay," she said, finally breaking the silence as she capped the lipstick and took in his full outfit. "We're doing the sexy assassin thing tonight, huh?"

Gordon let out a short, surprised laugh. The sound was a relief.

"The AI picked it," he shrugged.

"You never argue with it," she said, but the words had lost their bite.

She was almost ready now, just shoes to go.

"You're not gonna talk about it, are you," she said, voice low. It wasn't a question. Her makeup set off her blue eyes, which were flashing with annoyance.

He paused, one hand fiddling with the brushed-steel buckle of his belt.

"That's for you too," she'd said last night, leaning back onto him. "I. . . didn't know you were into that."

"Me either," he'd admitted.

"I was hoping I didn't ruin everything."

Karen stilled, her newly painted lips pressed into a firm line.

"I mean," Gordon said, rubbing the back of his neck, "we've been friends for—what, twenty years? That's not nothing."

She watched him in the mirror's reflection. Waited.

"And then," he added, his voice dropping, "I, uh. . . accidentally put it in your butt."

Karen blinked. Once. Twice.

Then: "Wow." A slow, dangerous smile spread across her face.

"Then we kissed, and you kissed me this morning, but I still spent all day worrying about it instead of touching base or anything."

"That—and you committed to the worst possible opener," she said, tossing the lipstick tube at him, which he fumbled and caught. "Is that what you've been stewing on all day? That line?"

He didn't smile back.

Karen's voice softened. "Hey. For the record? That wasn't the problem."

Gordon looked up, startled. "No?"

She gave a small, crooked smile. "No."

His brow furrowed. "You didn't seem upset, but. . . I wasn't sure."

Karen took a breath. "You didn't hurt me. You stopped when I asked. And then you didn't stop when I said not to."

A pause.

A memory, impossible to ignore now. Her hand on his chest. Her voice in the dark, low and sure: "Wait. I want this to count." The way she'd turned to face him, hands guiding him. "I wanted this, but I want this like from a lover. Kiss me."

He hadn't known what to do with that. Still didn't.

Karen met his eyes in the mirror. "That's not something I give people. Not the access. And especially not the meaning."

He swallowed. "I know."

She tilted her head. "Do you?"

"I do now." His voice cracked, not from nerves—just the weight of what he was trying to express. "And I'm sorry if I didn't see it. . . or you. . . sooner."

Karen turned from the mirror, stepping into a pair of sharp, black heeled boots. The long panels of her skirt parted with the movement, revealing her legs nearly to the hip. She didn't look satisfied. He wasn't getting through.

"You ready to go make small talk with a bunch of corporate ghouls?" she asked, like they hadn't been inches from naked ten minutes ago. Like she didn't remember the sound he made when she kissed him. Like she hadn't woken up curled around him, and left with a parting peck like it was just another weekend.

Gordon nodded. The word stuck in his throat.

She walked past him toward the door. He almost reached out. Didn't.

The silence stretched again. Not comfortable. Not at all.

Karen broke it, her hand on the doorknob.

"So you've been worrying about this all day," she said. "Running lines through your head, probably." Her eyebrow twitched. "And still you opened with 'I hope I didn't ruin everything by putting it in your butt.'"

He winced. "Yeah. Okay. Not my finest." He took a deep breath. "I wasn't expecting it," he added. "The kiss this morning. Or how normal and . . . domestic it felt. Or waking up next to you and not knowing what to say."

Karen nodded, not pushing. Letting him go at his pace.

"I didn't know what to do with it," he said. "With having you there."

"It was a test," she said quietly.

He stilled.

"To see if we could survive the morning after. If you'd treat me like a mistake. Or like. . . someone who mattered." She finally looked at him, her expression open and vulnerable for the first time all evening. "I thought if I acted like it was normal, maybe it could be."

"It felt normal," he said. "Really normal."

"You passed," she said. "Barely."

That cracked a smile from him. "Barely?"

"Well, you did spend twenty minutes pretending to be fascinated by your own suit instead of talking to me."

"Guilty," he admitted. Then, because he couldn't resist: "You snore."

Karen gave him a long look, before visibly deciding to engage with his nonsense. "I do not."

"You absolutely do."

Karen stepped closer—not being dramatic. Just enough to look clearly into his eyes. Serious Karen, again, but softer.

"I'm not pretending," she said. "That's what I want you to know. I'm not trying to trap you or make this something it's not. But I do want more."

Gordon swallowed. Then nodded. His mouth was dry.

"I know. It wasn't just sex for me either."

And for a few seconds, the distant sound of polite chatter from downstairs was the only thing in the room. Waiting.

Her gaze met his in the mirror one last time. They stood there, a matched set. Dangerous, sleek, and utterly out of place. A team.

He spoke softly, without looking away from their reflection. "So. How long was I ignoring you?"

She froze for long seconds.

"It's been most of a year this time," she said eventually. "Which wasn't the first time."

She glanced downstairs. Vulnerable, uncertain–for an instant.

The party downstairs awaited.

Karen's voice was faux-confident, but steady. "Let's roll, hotshot."

And that was it.

Game on.

Big feelings postponed. Again.

But maybe not for as long this time.