And one supply pod on the lower route was not empty. A late tower student, fetching stock, and Nymeria's hand closed on Victor's collar and hauled all three of them into a reagent storage pod two sizes too small, and pulled the curtain.
The student was on the far side of the shelving. Meters away. Working. They could not leave for ninety seconds without being seen by him.
The pod was small enough that a lamp was a tight fit.
Nymeria was pressed flat against Victor's front, her back to the curtain, her enormous chest crushed against his chest, the full warm weight of her packed against him from thigh to collarbone in the dark, her thick hips bracketed by his hands where he had caught her, and neither of them said one word about it.
They both counted the ninety seconds.
