“When did you get all wise?”
“About twenty-three years into this job and one Kytherian claiming later.” There’s warmth in her voice. “Maybe this terraformer and his kid are worth it.”
I close my eyes. “Three days?”
“Maybe four if we’re lucky. Use them wisely. And Dove? If you need extraction, you call me. Immediately.”
“Yes, Mother.”
“I mean it. Luzrak’s already plotting rescue scenarios, and you know how he gets when he’s in protective mode.”
Despite everything, I smile. “Thanks, Mother.”
“Now go figure out if you’re running or staying. And for the love of the void, make a decision before the collectors arrive.”
The connection cuts.
I lean against the corridor wall, processing. Three days. Maybe four.
Not enough time to run. Barely enough time to plan.
But maybe—maybe—enough time to let myself try something different.
“Captain.” Pickles’s voice is gentle. “The Terraforming Specialist is approaching your location. I calculate he has been monitoring your distress through vocal patterns and has decided intervention is necessary.”
“Of course he has.”
Cetus rounds the corner, his expression careful but his markings bright with concern. “You’re upset.”
“I’m processing.”
“Would processing be easier with company? Or do you require solitude?”
The fact that he’s asking—giving me the choice—makes something tighten in my chest.
“Company might be good.”
He steps closer. I can feel his warmth without him touching me.
“Mother Morrison?”
“She’s worried about the debt collectors. They’re not planning to wait for the full storm cycle. They have advanced shielding that cuts through most electromagnetic interference.”
“How long?”
“Three days. Maybe four if the storm stays strong enough.”
His markings pulse with something fierce and protective. “Then we have three days to solve the problem. Together. If you’ll let me try.”
“Cetus—”
“You don’t have to decide anything right now. Don’t leave yet. Give us these days. Let me help with the debt situation. Let Tavia teach you about hydroponics and interrogate you about your life. Let Pickles document our biometrics with smug satisfaction.”
“I can hear you, Terraforming Specialist,” Pickles interjects. “And I neither confirm nor deny experiencing smug satisfaction at current developments.”
I laugh despite everything. “You’re all completely ridiculous.”
“Yes,” Cetus agrees. His hand finally makes contact, his fingers carefully threading through mine, warm and solid and real. Each point of connection deliberate, his palm radiating heat that sinks into my bones. He’s so much larger that my hand disappears into his, and I feel the ghost pressure of retracted claws against my knuckles, the conscious gentleness that speaks louder than words.
