“I don’t—” She swallows. Tries again. “I don’t know what to do with that.”
“You could start by breathing,” I say gently.
She laughs. It comes out wet and broken and beautiful.
“Item three.” Mother pauses. Enjoying herself. “I’ve been informed of your PDC inspection results. Preliminary approval for expansion. Congratulations, Specialist Storm.”
“Thank you, Mother.”
“You’re welcome. Now.” Her voice drops into command frequency. “Can you two please resolve your sexual tension before you break something? Pickles has been sending me biometric updates for four days, and frankly your combined readings are giving my medical officer cardiac events of his own.”
“I have been providing relevant operational data,” Pickles says primly. “If the data happens to include cardiovascular and hormonal readings consistent with unresolved romantic attachment at levels I can only describe as staggering, that is a reflection of biological reality, not editorial commentary.”
“That is absolutely editorial commentary,” Dove says, but she’s laughing—wet, shaky laughter that keeps cracking into something that sounds like nine years of relief finally finding its way out. “Pickles, you traitor.”
“I am loyal to the family unit’s optimal functioning. Current functioning is suboptimal. I have been patient beyond what should be expected of any sentient system.”
“You have been nosy beyond what should be legal.”
“These are not mutually exclusive.”
Mother Morrison cuts through the banter. “Morrison out. Handle your business.” A beat. “And Specialist Storm? Whatever you did to earn that woman’s loyalty—keep doing it.” The comm clicks off.
Silence settles. Not the tense kind. The kind that means the worst is over and what remains is the living.
Dove stands beside me, not quite touching. Her eyes are red-rimmed and her smile is crooked and she’s the most beautiful thing on this planet or any other.
“Debt voided,” she says softly.
“Station approved.”
“Collectors gone.”
“Job offer pending.”
She looks up at me. “Nothing stopping us now.”
The words land in my chest like a heartbeat finding its rhythm. Nothing stopping us. No storms, no debts, no threats, no escape plans she has to maintain. Nothing between us except air and choice.
I reach for her—
“PAPA! DOVE!”
Tavia’s voice carries from the hydroponics bay with the penetrating clarity that only an excited eight-year-old can achieve. The security locks disengage—Pickles releasing them with timing that is either catastrophic or perfect depending on perspective.
“PICKLES TOLD ME THE BAD PEOPLE LEFT AND THE INSPECTORS SAID YES AND DOVE’S DEBT IS GONE!” Running footsteps in the corridor. Getting closer. “CAN WE HAVE CELEBRATION DINNER? CAN WE? DOVE, WILL YOU MAKE THE PASTA WITH THE CHEESE THING?”
I close my eyes. A growl of pure frustration builds in my chest—low, resonant, strong enough to rattle the nearest console—and I swallow it, because my daughter is running toward us with joy in her voice and light in her markings and that matters. It does. Even with the ridge-line still aching and Dove’s taste still on my lips and the wall behind us bearing claw marks that will require explanation.
Dove laughs. The sound is raw and full—terror, relief, absurdity, desire, all of it tangled together. She’s flushed and her lips are swollen and her shirt is untucked and she is laughing like someone who just discovered she’s allowed to stay.
“Yeah, small person,” she calls back, her voice steady despite everything. Her hand finds mine and squeezes once—hard, fierce, full of every promise we didn’t get to finish. “I’ll make the pasta with the cheese thing.”
Tavia rounds the corner at full speed, markings blazing happy-gold, and launches herself at both of us. I catch her. Dove catches her. We stand in the corridor of our station—approved, defended, ours—holding the child who chose us before we chose each other.
Her markings pulse warm against my chest. The settling pattern. The one that means safe.
“Dove, are you crying?” Tavia examines Dove’s face with eight-year-old scrutiny.
