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Golden Warm

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If Wash was a man who didn’t live on a rust-bucket spaceship, who ever made more money than just barely enough, he’d buy his Zoe jewels.

Not cold diamonds or hard rubies, but warm, golden amber. Of all the precious stones, amber felt the most alive— if he remembered his lessons, it had once been tree sap, soaking up the sunshine before becoming a beautiful gem.

He’d buy them for Zoe, strings of beads, dangling from earrings and set in circlets, cover her in them and make her skin glow golden.

Until then, he’ll take her just as she is.