“Running?” I lift my head.
“It appears so. The inspection approval and debt clearance may have made the sector too legitimate for their operations.”
I drop my head back to his chest. “So we scared off the space mafia with paperwork.”
“Paperwork and a very aggressive AI who transmitted one hundred and twenty-seven legal violations to every authority in range.”
I make a mental note to bake Pickles a cake. The AI equivalent. Maybe an OS update with extra processing cores.
The comm goes dark. The storms rage outside. We’re safe.
I wake to light.
Gold light, pulsing gently—his patterns aglow in sleep, synchronized with the heartbeat I can feel under my cheek. His arm is heavy across my waist, his body curled around mine, a wall of warmth and teal skin and possessive, unconscious grip. Even in sleep, he holds me like I might vanish.
I don’t want to vanish. That’s the miracle.
The door to the main corridor slides open and a small body catapults onto the bed.
“IT WORKED!” Tavia lands between us with the graceless enthusiasm of an eight-year-old who has been vibrating with anticipation since approximately 4 AM. Her patterns flare joy-gold. “Pickles said your heartbeats are synced! That means the bond worked! That means you’re STAYING!”
Cetus groans and pulls a pillow over his face. “Tavia. Time?”
“Morning enough! Dove, you’re staying, right? You’re staying forever? Papa, tell her she has to stay forever!”
I catch the small tornado and haul her into a hug. She squeals and burrows against me, her little markings pulsing warm against my shoulder—right next to the claiming bite, matching her father’s golden patterns. Two Lividians, broadcasting home.
“Yeah, small person.” My voice cracks and I don’t even try to hide it. “I’m staying.”
“PICKLES! OPERATION MATCHMAKER IS COMPLETE!”
“Confirmed,” Pickles announces, and his vocal processors do a thing that might be a glitch or might be an emotion he’ll deny for the rest of his operational lifespan. “Operation Matchmaker concludes with a ninety-five percent success metric across all measured parameters. I am... satisfied with this outcome. The family unit is optimised.”
“What’s the other five percent?” Tavia demands.
“I have allocated a five percent margin for the Captain’s inevitable stubbornness about accepting help with future OOPS deliveries. This is statistically non-negotiable.”
“He’s not wrong,” Cetus murmurs from under the pillow.
“Shut up, both of you.” I’m laughing and crying and holding a kid who chose me before I chose myself. “I love you. All of you. Even the sarcastic spaceship.”
“I am not a spaceship. I am a military-grade AI core. And I am... fond of you too, Captain.”
Tavia wriggles between us, one hand on my arm, one hand on her father’s chest, her small body a bridge between the two people she decided belonged to her long before we figured it out ourselves.
Outside, the electromagnetic storms rage across Kepler-7b.
Inside, his patterns pulse gold against my skin. My heartbeat. His light. Our daughter’s laughter filling the station like a sound that was always meant to live here.
Home.
Famous last words? No. Famous first ones.
15
Settling In
Cetus
