Ripley sighs, “Okay.”
Then she leans into me.
“Mister?Blast… thanks.”
I look at her. Under the lights I see every freckle, every messy braid, every inch of innocence and fearless fire.
“Just Blast works,” I say.
She grins.
Rhea clears her throat. I turn to her.
She says softly, “Thank you.”
I nod.
Then I risk the question.
“Could… could I see her more?”
Rhea’s eyes dart away. The air feels thick. Sweat and anticipation and unspoken years.
“I… I’d like that,” she says. “But…” Her voice catches. “There’s things you don’t know. Things I didn’t tell you because I thought you were dead.”
Her gaze finds me. “And maybe things you don’t deserve to forgive.”
My face burns.
I don’t speak.
I just turn to Ripley. Rest my cheek on the top of her head. She wiggles.
“Uncle?Blast, show me the mega spin!”
I dive back into park mode. She shrieks. The moment is razor-sharp.
I glance at Rhea—bench, arms wrapped around herself, watching us. My heart twists.
That night I lay in my quarters, lights dimmed but tv still flickering news reports of NovaCast spin control and arena sponsorship fallout. My body aches from play but my mind races.
I think about the shield toss, her laughter, her “Uncle?Blast” address. The way she gripped me, trusted me.
I think about Rhea, sitting there in shadows, trying to decide.
I think about the years I lost.
And the years I’ve got to catch up.
In the dark, I whisper, “Start small. Start slow.”
I don’t know if she hears.
But I mean it.
Ripley’sout cold on my chest.
We’re curled up on Rhea’s couch, the lights dimmed low, just the ambient hum of the building’s life-support systems humming beneath us. The kid’s breath is slow, steady, her fingers curled into the fabric of my shirt like she’s afraid I’ll vanish if she lets go.
