In the parent lounge, I buckle him into the high chair, my fingers fumbling on the straps. He babbles, grabbing at the dangling mobile toy above his head. I flick it once. He giggles. That sound—it knocks the breath out of me every time. So human. So loud in this quiet life I’m trying to build.
I sit across from him and exhale. My joints ache. Not from walking. From holding back.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I glance. A message from Earth Base. I don’t open it.
“First day,” I whisper, mostly to myself.
Garma reaches toward me, hands fluttering like wings. I lean in, kiss his forehead.
“You ready to pretend we’re normal?”
He blows a raspberry.
I laugh. It startles me. The sound feels foreign in my own throat.
We roll out of the lounge and into the drizzle. The city smells shift again—diesel, hot sugar, the damp musk of old stone. A tram squeals nearby. Garma babbles something unintelligible and points at a puddle.
“You like that one? Big splash, huh?”
He nods solemnly, as if I’ve said something important.
At the café down the street, I balance him in one arm and order a latte with the other. Foam clings to the lid. I sip. Too hot. Too bitter. Not bitter enough.
We sit by the window. The glass fogs. Garma slaps it with his palm, fascinated by the blur of the world outside.
Across from me, a woman coos at her toddler, who throws a spoon on the floor and laughs like it’s magic. I look at her—the woman. Her clean jeans. Her easy smile. I want that ease. I want that world.
But mine’s different. My hand tightens around the strap of Garma’s carrier. My eyes drift closed for a second, and in the darkness, I see Whiplash burning. Hear Naull scream. Feel the Meld tear.
“Don’t,” I whisper to myself.
I blink. I’m in London. I’m fine.
Garma reaches for me.
“Mama hold,” he says, and I oblige.
His little hands pat my cheeks like I’m the one who needs comforting. Maybe I do.
“Love you, storm baby,” I whisper.
A low thunder rumbles overhead. I look up, through the window, as another shuttle slices through the clouds.
I could almost pretend it’s just a flight to Spain. Not a mech convoy. Not a warbird.
I kiss Garma’s temple and whisper, “We’re safe now. Just us.”
But something inside me—deep, and coiled, and not ready to die—doesn’t believe it.
And part of me… doesn’t want to.
Garma sleeps through the first half of my Propulsion Dynamics lecture, bless him.
He’s wrapped against my chest in a sling, his breath warm and rhythmic against the dip of my collarbone. I take notes one-handed, stylus gliding across the tablet’s surface like second nature. My other hand curls instinctively over the curve of his back.
Dr. Kessler pauses mid-slide when I enter late, scanning the room from his perch at the lectern. His gaze lands on Garma. There’s a flicker—nostalgia, maybe—but no comment. Just a nod. He moves on.
Good.
