“Small person,” Pickles says in my earpiece. “The Terraforming Specialist has touched the Captain’s lower back four times in the past twenty-two minutes. The Captain has touched the Terraforming Specialist’s arm seven times. Neither appears to be aware they are doing this.”
Seven times. I glance over. Dove’s hand rests against Papa’s forearm while she traces a line on the wall diagram with her other hand. Papa has gone completely still. His markings pulse in slow, deep waves I’ve never seen before—not the happy-bright ones or the angry-danger ones. Something deeper. Steady.
“Pickles, what pattern is that?”
Long pause. Longer than Pickles usually takes.
“That pattern is categorized in Lividian bonding literature as a ‘settling’ display. It occurs when a Lividian has identified a permanent mate and their biology begins calibrating to the partner’s presence as a baseline rather than a stimulus.”
“What does that mean in kid words?”
“It means his body has stopped treating her as new and exciting and has started treating her as home.”
Oh.
Oh.
My eyes get stingy. I blink hard and look at my data pad.
Things get tense when Patel starts asking about personnel allocation.
“Your station is registered as a single-operator facility with one dependent,” she says, scrolling through records. “Yet your recent documentation suggests a two-person operational structure. Care to explain?”
Papa opens his mouth. His hands shift at his sides—and I see his claws extend, sharp tips catching the light before he tucks them behind his back. That’s his danger-reflex. The same one he gets during storm warnings.
The collectors. Papa’s thinking about the collectors too.
“Small person,” Pickles murmurs in my earpiece. “Adult tension levels at eighty-seven percent. I recommend deploying the spill contingency within the next six to eight minutes.”
“Not yet,” I whisper. “Dove’s got this.”
And she does.
“I’ve been assisting with station operations during my extended delivery hold,” Dove says, stepping forward with her clipboard like a shield. “The atmospheric storms created a safety situation that required additional personnel, and my OOPS courier credentials include basic terraforming support certification.”
Patel’s chin lifts. “You have terraforming certification?”
“Level Two. Required for any courier running supply routes to active terraforming operations. I can show you my OOPS qualification records if you’d like.”
She pulls up the documentation on her data pad—already loaded, already tabbed—and Patel studies it with the first expression that isn’t skepticism. It might even be respect.
Papa’s claws retract. His shoulders drop. He watches Dove handle it with his hands behind his back—the proud scientist observing a successful experiment.
His markings are doing the lightning pattern again. The mating display. The chapter in my biology textbook I’m technically not supposed to have read yet.
“Pickles,” I type furiously. “THE LIGHTNING PATTERN.”
“I am aware. I have documented it extensively. For science.”
I need to do something before Patel notices. Papa’s markings are doing the alien equivalent of a neon sign reading THAT WOMAN IS MY MATE, and if anyone points it out he’ll go stiff and weird and tank the inspection.
Strategic interruption time.
“Excuse me, Inspector Patel?” I stand up from my chair, data pad tucked under my arm like I’ve seen Dove do with her clipboard. “Would you like to see my independent botanical research project? It demonstrates practical application of the station’s hydroponics integration. I have documentation.”
I do have documentation. Dove helped me make a whole folder last night. With tabs.
Patel looks at me. I deploy the smile—the eight-and-three-quarters-year-old one that grown-ups can’t resist.
