“She won’t believe that for a second.”
“No.” His thumb traces the claiming mark on my collarbone. Gentle now. Tender. The predator-to-caretaker shift that gets me every single time. “But she’ll pretend to. She’s tactful when it benefits her.”
I kiss him. Slow and thorough, tasting ozone and that faintly sweet lubrication that’s uniquely him, and underneath it — soil. Both of us taste like earth. Like the greenhouse floor. Like the ground we’re standing on and the atmosphere he’s building above it.
“You just proposed to me and then fucked me in your life’s work,” I say against his mouth. “That’s either romantic or sacrilegious.”
“In Lividian culture, consummation in a place of growth is considered auspicious.” A beat. “I may have just made that up.”
“You did NOT just make that up.”
“The cultural database is extensive. I cannot be expected to recall every entry.”
“You have perfect recall. You’re lying.”
His markings pulse warm gold. The colour of certainty. Of home. “Perhaps. But the sentiment is accurate regardless. Everything important in my life grows here. Including this.”
I press my face against his chest. Dirt on my skin. His heartbeat under my ear. The greenhouse humming around us, alive and warm and full of things we planted together.
No. I am not divorcing this man. Not before, during, or after the wedding.
Not ever.
The Golden Retriever comes in hot.
I’m watching from the docking bay observation deck — cleaned up, dressed, only slightly glowing from the greenhouse incident — when the courier ship cuts through Kepler’s upper atmosphere at an angle that’s technically within regulations and spiritually in violation of every safety protocol Mother Morrison ever wrote.
The hull is standard OOPS issue. Thepaint jobis not. Someone has applied sparkly star decals across the port side, along with what appears to be a hand-painted motto: WILL DELIVER ANYTHING EXCEPT BAD VIBES.
“Incoming vessel: OOPS courier The Golden Retriever,” Pickles announces. “Registered pilot Florence Knight. I have... stylistic concerns about the hull ornamentation.”
Mother Morrison’s voice crackles over the station relay, already tight with the specific exasperation of a woman who has explained protocol to this person one thousand times. “Foxton. I’m sending Knight with your supply run. She is efficient, competent, and fully qualified. She is also—”
“Morrison, I can HEAR you!” A bright, warm voice cuts across the channel. “And whatever you’re about to say, remember that I delivered the Nexus Seven medical cargo two days early AND brought cookies!”
“Bringing cookies is not a professional metric, Knight.”
“It should be! Ask anyone!”
“I’ve asked. No one agrees.”
“That’s because you asked scary people, Morrison! Ask the nice ones!”
The Golden Retriever touches down with unexpected grace — the flying is actually gorgeous, smooth atmospheric entry, precise landing. Whatever else Florence Knight is, she can fly.
The docking bay pressurizes. The hatch opens.
Honey-blonde hair in a messy braid, held back by sparkly clips shaped like tiny stars. Warm brown eyes that crinkle at the corners because she’s already smiling — has probably been smiling since she woke up. A cardigan with embroidered flowers over a standard-issue courier tactical vest, which is a fashion choice I have never seen anyone make and yet somehow works.
She sees me and her entire face illuminates.
“You must be Dove!” She’s across the docking bay in four strides and hugging me before I can react. Full-body, committed, the kind of hug that saysI’ve decided we’re friends and this is happening.“Mother told me everything. Well, not everything — she’s stingy about details, but enough! You’re the one who flew through the Kepler storms and fell for the atmospheric scientist and saved the station! You’re BRILLIANT and I brought you emergency baking supplies because Morrison mentioned you bake and bakers are my FAVOURITE people!”
“...Hi?”
“I’m Flossie!” She releases me, beaming. “Or Flo, or Flossy, or Flo-Flo — honestly, whatever you like, lovey! Twelve years running OOPS routes and I’ve never met a stranger.” She turns to the cargo hold. “Now, where do you want sixty kilograms of agricultural supplements and—” her voice drops conspiratorially “—an unauthorized box of vanilla extract that’s technically not on the manifest but I figured no one checks vanilla?”
“Pickles checks everything.”
