Docking Mishap & Station Official**

  The S.S. Cosmic Clover glided into Nettle Station’s approach lane with all the majestic grace of a ship whose captain was trying very hard not to look nervous and whose co?pilot had already mentally declared victory.

  Kael followed the docking guidance beacons carefully, easing back on the thrusters as the ship came into position.

  “Clover” to Nettle Dock Control,” Kessa said cheerfully. “Requesting permission for final approach.”

  A voice crackled over the comms—thin, nasal, and unexpectedly enthusiastic.

  “S.S. Cosmic Clover! Ah! Yes! The new owners! Just a moment, dearies, let me… oh! Oh stars—HELMET! Where’s my—someone took my helmet again! Gribble, was it you?! Never mind, I found it!”

  Kael blinked. “…Did they call us ‘dearies’?”

  Kessa grinned. “I like them already.”

  The comm crackled again. “Docking permission granted! Pad C?Dock?Seven. Follow the green lights, not the blue lights—those go to the recycling barge and they hate visitors.”

  The channel clicked off before either twin could respond.

  Kael exhaled slowly. “Okay. We can do this.”

  Kessa raised an eyebrow. “You sound like you’re about to perform surgery, not park a spaceship.”

  “Same level of pressure.”

  He nudged the thrusters.

  For a moment, everything went perfectly.

  Then something went ping.

  Not alarm?ping. Not danger?ping.

  More like… toaster ping.

  Kessa frowned. “What was that?”

  Kael checked the console. “The… forward stabilizer just uncoupled?”

  Before either could react, the ship gave a gentle, almost curious tilt to the right.

  Not catastrophic. Not dangerous.

  Just… inconvenient.

  Kessa grabbed the armrests. “We are leaning.”

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  “I see that.”

  “We are definitely leaning.”

  “I KNOW.”

  The ship drifted sideways in the world’s slowest, most awkward spiral—like a polite drunk trying not to bump into anyone in a crowded hallway.

  Kessa said, “Kael.”

  “I’ve got it.”

  “Kael.”

  “I KNOW.”

  “Want me to help?”

  “NO.”

  She folded her hands primly in her lap. “Okay, Captain.”

  The comm hissed to life again. “Clover, dearies? You appear to be… mm, how do I put this kindly… performing a mating dance with Docking Beacon Eleven.”

  Kael’s soul tried to escape his body.

  Kessa covered her mouth to contain laughter.

  The voice continued diplomatically: “You might want to re-engage your stabilizers unless you’re courting it, in which case, carry on.”

  Kael muttered under his breath, “I hate everything.”

  He killed lateral drift, re-engaged the stabilizer, and brought the ship back into alignment with only the faintest wobble left over.

  “Textbook,” Kessa said solemnly.

  “Do not.”

  “Text. Book.”

  He guided the ship the final few meters. Docking clamps thudded into place with a satisfying ka?CHUNK and the indicator lights flipped green.

  Kessa applauded.

  Kael put his face in his hands.

  The comm opened again, cheerful as ever. “Hooray! Successful docking without full collision. That’s what we call a win on a Thursday. Or… is it Friday? I don’t trust station clocks. Anyway! I’ll meet you at the airlock!”

  Kessa bounced out of her seat. “I love them.”

  Kael groaned. “I hope they’re normal.”

  “They are definitely not normal.”

  Nettle Station Official: Gribble Sundown

  The airlock cycled open to reveal a small, wiry human in a citrus?yellow jumpsuit, mismatched magnetic boots, and—for reasons unclear—a transparent bubble helmet decorated with hand?painted daisies.

  They waved enthusiastically. “Welcome to Nettle Station! I’m Gribble Sundown—Dockmaster, Supply Coordinator, and Emergency Baking Officer!”

  Kessa lit up. “Baking?”

  “Oh yes!” Gribble beamed. “Last week we had a cooling coil failure and I made twenty?seven blueberry muffins to keep morale up. I take my duties very seriously.”

  Kael blinked. “You… bake during emergencies?”

  “Only during some emergencies. Others call for brownies.”

  Kessa elbowed him. “I love them. We’re keeping them.”

  “You cannot keep a dockmaster,” Kael whispered.

  “Wanna bet?”

  Gribble leaned in conspiratorially. “Heard you two had a little spin on approach. Very graceful! Like a star-whale in courtship season.”

  Kael felt the heat rise in his cheeks. “That was—uh—intentional.”

  “Of course it was, dearie!” Gribble winked. “Come on, let’s get you checked in. And if you’re lucky, I’ve got leftover muffins.”

  Kessa gasped. “Kael. Muffins.”

  Kael sighed, resigned. “Fine.”

  The twins followed Gribble down the brightly lit docking corridor as the Wayward Starling settled behind them—steady, humming, and now officially part of their story.