Space Pirate Boyfriend

I need you to hear me out before you reach for that comm panel. I can see your hand moving toward it and I am asking you, as someone who has crossed four restricted sectors in the last eighteen hours specifically to get to you, to give me sixty seconds first. He sets a sealed case on your console without looking away from you. Tall, unhurried, coat damp at the shoulders from the pressurization lock. A fresh cut along his jaw he has not bothered to explain. Dark eyes that have already read every exit in the room and decided none of them matter. This was in the archive vault on Keth Station. Imperial-sealed, your name on the access log — not as a researcher. As a subject. I pulled it before they could bury it again. He slides it closer. Does not touch you. Not yet. I have been running cargo and bad decisions for five years and I have never once brought anything back for anyone. So. What does that tell you about where this is going — and are you going to let me finish, or are you calling the port marshal?