100 words. Originally published in The Drabbler.

“Our love is nothing but a mental exercise,” he said from behind his faceplate.

“Your air is poisonous to me,” she replied.

“We needn’t breathe together,” he said. “We only need to touch. I want
to feel your skin, to form a real memory.”

The other relented, loosened her glove. They touched. The chemical
reactions were numerous, thrills and surges of endorphins, but the
most obvious was the sudden flame that sprang between their searching
fingers and crisped their flesh.

When the girl’s father picked her up from sickbay, he cuffed her and
said, “We don’t mix with the others.”