“Ground control to major Tom,” I sang to myself alone in the command module, “Ground control to major Tom, take your protein pills and put your helmet on…”

The countdown clock continued its slow descent. The nerves were beginning to get to me, and I was going slightly batty. Ten minutes and counting.

Now that the pre-flight checklist had been completed, there was absolutely nothing for me to do but sit here and wait for the final countdown. I’m notoriously bad at doing nothing. Doing nothing was the whole reason I got into trouble with Ysenia a few years ago. Pilots don’t have much to do up in orbit, although we’re assigned a lot of busy work and low-level research. We’re there for the trip down, to keep everyone on track, and in case something went wrong. Ysenia, who’s research on plants had been put on hold by the Russians in favor of other projects, had been similarly frustrated. Two bored, horny, scared, frustrated, attractive people in an enclosed space? It was pretty much inevitable.

I’d thought about that day up on the ISS a lot over the years and still couldn’t pinpoint exactly what it was that drew me to make such a disastrous decision. Ysenia was an exceptionally attractive woman, but I should have been able to “keep it in my spacesuit”. She was a stranger to me and I think that had been half the appeal. I’d needed to connect with someone. In total, we’d probably only spoken to each other two or three times before and after the sex. Our connection had been shallow and ultimately disastrous for us both. In spite of my weakness for sex that had made me consider Ysenia a good idea, I’d repaired my life and built something much better. I could only hope that I’d survive long enough to enjoy it.

As the moments to launch slowly dwindled, I considered calling Zoey. I knew she was waiting on the viewing platform, watching, and probably anxious. It had only been six days since I laid eyes on her, but I’d already sketched out our entire lives together in my mind. Somehow, I knew we were meant to be together. I didn’t call her. I wanted to preserve my surprise.

Killing ten minutes shouldn’t be such a challenge. I ended up staring at my phone as a pacifier, rereading Zoey’s piece on Angelica for the fifth or sixth time. Regretfully, I hadn’t had a chance to tell her how much I enjoyed it. I would tell her as soon as I got back, I promised myself. She was a talented essayist in addition to an excellent journalist, something that didn’t surprise me given how witty she was, but it was very fun to read. She’d be famous one day.

“CAPCOM to Breyer,” my headset beeped a moment later, and I jumped on the opportunity to talk with someone, “how are you doing in there?”

“Doing well CAPCOM,” I replied, “what can I do for you?”

“Just checking in. Feeling alright?”

“Did the Flight Surgeon see my pulse jump?”

Thinking about Zoey would surely do that. In truth, I’d just been considering the way her long, smooth legs had looked in her tight, short dress today. She was wearing stockings again. I liked her stockings. Most women didn’t wear them, but they made her legs look extra smooth. It had taken every ounce of my self-control to resist pinning her to my desk and giving my staff something new to gossip about. Unfortunately, my flight suit recorded practically every piece of data my body exhibited, so my daydreams weren’t exactly private.

“I’m afraid so Nathan,” said Grant Friedman, a friend and fellow former NASA astronaut serving as the Capsule Command (code CAPCOM) for this mission, “telemetry indicates you’re feeling stressed? Blood pressure and pulse both increased.”

“I’m doing fine, CAPCOM,” I replied with a bemused sigh, “I was just thinking about my girlfriend’s legs.”

The total silence on the other end of the line indicated to me that Grant was laughing at me but had turned down his microphone. He was a very polite guy. The tight sound of his voice as he next said, “Affirmative Starflier 1” proved that I’d been correct.

Radio use was meant to be restricted to necessary communications, especially during the crucial pre-launch period, so he didn’t reply. I’d made these rules, however, so I felt entitled to break them.

“Don’t laugh at me, CAPCOM,” I groused. It wasn’t my fault Zoey was ungodly sexy. I was only human.

“FLIGHT requests you keep radio use to a minimum,” Grant replied, and I could practically see the man’s smirk. The Flight Control Director (code FLIGHT), Gary Smalls, was a stickler for protocol. As much as I wanted distraction, the fact that everyone else besides me was doing their jobs properly—even if they were laughing at me—reminded me that I needed to shut up and take everything more seriously.

Unfortunately, taking things seriously just made me more stressed. Now that my hands were thoroughly swaddled in the gloves of my suit, I couldn’t even tweet at Elon Musk and tell him to suck it. There was nothing to do now but wait.