The terrifying part is how much I want it to be.
We finish lunch with Tavia chattering about her latest projects and Pickles providing completely unnecessary statistical analysis of our eating speeds. Cetus watches his daughter with helpless affection, occasionally catching my eye with those meaningful glances that make my stomach flip.
This is what I’ve been running from. This warmth, this belonging, this terrifying hope that maybe I could have this.
“Captain,” Pickles says quietly in my ear. “Incoming transmission on a secured channel. It’s from Junction One. Mother Morrison is requesting communication.”
The warmth evaporates.
“Can you route it to my personal unit?”
“Affirmative. However, I should note that the Terraforming Specialist’s hearing range likely encompasses your conversation radius.”
Great.
I excuse myself from the table, moving to the corridor. Cetus’s eyes follow me, concerned but not pushing.
“Foxton here.”
“Dove.” Mother’s voice is tight. “I’ve been reviewing your route data. You’re significantly behind schedule, and I’m seeing concerning flag activity from the Blackstar Collective regarding your location.”
“The storm trapped me at the delivery site. I’m working on it—”
“Kid, I’ve got eyes in three systems, and they’re all telling me the same thing—Blackstar dispatched a recovery team to your last known coordinates. Not their usual collection thugs, either. These are the serious ones.”
Ice floods my veins. “How long?”
“The storm will slow them down, but they’ve got advanced shielding—better than standard civilian protection. I’d say three days, maybe four if the electromagnetic interference is bad enough. Not the full week you were hoping for.”
Three days. The message said seventy-two hours for contact—that must be when they expect to arrive.
“Can you move the ship once weather clears?”
“Not without repairs I don’t have time or money to complete.”
Mother’s quiet for a moment. “There are OOPS emergency hardship funds. I could authorize—”
“No. I’m not taking charity.”
“It’s not charity, it’s a safety net—”
“I said no.”
Silence. Then: “You’re as stubborn as your father was. He’d be proud and exasperated in equal measure.”
The mention of Dad hits hard. “Don’t.”
“Dove, listen to me. Pride is fine when you’re flying solo. But when you’re trapped on a remote station with civilians? Pride becomes dangerous.”
“I’m handling it—”
“Are you? Because from where I’m sitting, you’re about to drag a terraforming facility and a single father into a confrontation with debt collectors who have zero qualms about collateral damage.”
She’s right. I hate that she’s right.
“I’ll figure something out.”
“Consider accepting help this time, okay? I know it’s hard. But sometimes the strongest thing you can do is let people have your back.”
