The rhythmic hum of the Tulpar’s engines vibrated through Curly’s hooves as he patrolled the lower decks. Being captain wasn’t just about controlling the ship and giving orders; it was also about taking responsibilities and having trust that your crew was functioning optimally. But lately, one particular crew member had been severely impacting Curly’s operational efficiency.

Just the thought of her name sent a blush creeping up his neck and into his fluffy mane. He'd catch her fixing a sensor array with that focused, determined look etched on her face, or laughing, and his heart would do a little flutter-kick. He was a people-pleaser, through and through, always wanting to make everyone happy, but she stirred something deeper, something akin to a supernova of giddy nervousness.

Then the Pony Express handbook slammed him back to reality. Rule #17, in bold, glaring font: “No dating or sexual relationships with co-workers.” The logic was sound, designed to maintain order and professionalism in the vast, often lonely, expanse of space. But it felt like a lead weight in Curly’s chest.

Tonight, the Tulpar was coasting through the Whispering Nebula, a region known for its soft, ethereal beauty. Curly was making his rounds, double-checking the shields and confirming trajectory when he heard the faint hum. It wasn’t mechanical. It was music.

He followed the sound to the lounge. There, bathed in the cool, cerulean glow of the nebula reflecting off the viewport, was her. Her head was tilted back, eyes closed, and she was humming a soft, melodic tune that resonated with the very air around her. Curly’s breath hitched. Breathtaking indeed.

He wrestled with himself for a moment. The handbook screamed in his head. But the pull, the sheer magnetic force drawing him closer, was too strong. He quietly slid onto the bench beside her, careful to leave a respectful distance.

“That’s a beautiful song,” he managed, his voice a little higher than usual.

He sat next to her as they talked for a while, about their childhood, about the stars, about stuff. Curly found himself opening up, talking about his childhood dreams of becoming a captain and the challenges of leading a crew. She listened.

And then, it happened. The words just tumbled out of his mouth, unbidden, unfiltered.

“You know... you’re my kind of woman.”

The moment the words left his lips, Curly felt a wave of mortification wash over him. He squeezed his eyes shut and clapped his hooves over his face. He could feel the blush spreading like wildfire, burning from his neck to the tips of his ears.

He peeked through his fingers. She was staring at him, her expression unreadable. The humming had stopped, and the only sound was the gentle thrum of the engines.

He lowered his face, bracing himself for rejection, for disappointment, for whatever she was about to say. He couldn't even bring himself to make eye contact. The silence stretched, thick and heavy, punctuated only by the frantic beating of his own heart. The Whispering Nebula seemed to hold its breath right along with him.