“Sorry.” Dove pulls back. Her cheeks have gone dark pink. “Tight space.”
Papa inhales sharply through his nose. His markings flash so bright his neck glows through his collar, and he shifts his hips away from her at an angle that looks deeply uncomfortable.
“Pickles,” I whisper, confused. “Why is Papa’s leg doing the tense thing? She barely touched him.”
“That is a biomechanical response to proximity stimuli in a... sensitive region,” Pickles says carefully. “I will explain in greater detail when you are approximately twenty-five years old.”
“That’s a weird age.”
“It is the minimum I am comfortable with. Moving on.”
Dove reaches across him for more absorbent cloth—whole arm crossing his chest, hand bracing against his far shoulder.
They both freeze. Her face inches from his neck. His hand hovering over her hip like he forgot where to put it.
Three seconds. They stay like that for three full seconds while I count in my head.
“The cloth,” Papa says, his voice dropped into those low harmonics that make the air feel thick. “It’s behind you.”
“Right.” Dove pulls back slowly. Very slowly. “Right. The cloth.”
Their fingers brush during the handoff. Papa’s whole neck lights up gold.
Behind them, Omarion is suddenly very interested in reading something on his data pad. Patel makes a note.
“Small person,” Pickles says in my ear, dry as recycled station air. “I calculate that spill was engineered with a ninety-six point seven percent probability of deliberate execution. Your technique is improving.”
“Thank you.”
“Your Papa’s cardiac output spiked to one hundred forty-two beats per minute. The Captain’s to one hundred twenty-eight.For reference, these readings are more consistent with physical exertion than cleaning a floor.”
“Pickles!”
“I am providing educational biometric data. This is my function.”
The inspection continues. Patel finishes her systems review. Omarion completes his technical assessment. They step aside to compare notes, and for a brief moment, the adults in my life can breathe.
Dove leans against the console next to Papa. Not touching. But close. So close.
I’m pretending to read my data pad across the room. Pickles has the audio feed piped into my earpiece. I should tell him to turn it off.
I don’t.
“You’re doing amazingly,” Papa murmurs.
“We’re doing amazingly,” Dove corrects. She tilts her head, and her hair brushes Papa’s arm. “Your station is genuinely impressive, Cetus. They’d be idiots not to approve expansion.”
“The station is impressive because you reorganized its entire documentation system in one night.”
“Well.” She smiles at the floor. “I had good material to work with.”
Quiet. The kind of quiet that has weight.
Then Dove’s voice, barely a whisper: “Cetus, if we get through this—all of it, the inspectors, the collectors, everything—I need you to know. You’re not just strategy to me. Not just a safe harbor. You’re—”
“Home.” Papa’s voice drops into those deep harmonics that make the air hum. His hand finds hers behind the console where the inspectors can’t see. “Mine. You’re mine, Dove. Tonight, after this is over. I’m going to show you exactly what that means.”
Dove’s breath hitches. Even through the earpiece I can hear it. “Promise?”
