I don’t even mind.
Sable watches, half exasperated, half amused.
“You’re unbelievable,” she mutters.
“Compliment accepted.”
She leans back, sips her drink again. “Don’t think this means I like you.”
“Wouldn’t dream of assuming.”
“But thanks,” she adds. Quiet. Real.
And I don’t say anything.
Because right now, I’ve got sunshine on my back, sugar in my mouth, a kid hanging off my arm, and Sable not flinching when I sit close.
That’s a win.
Later, when we return to her dwelling, I realize something.
I don’t like this building.
It creaks when it settles, like it’s whispering secrets to the walls. Too many blind spots. Too many entry points not reinforced. One whole side of the roof’s accessible from the neighboring balcony and the motion sensors on the fire escape are set to discount “small mammals” which, on Novaria, can include a grown human in a hoodie. I told the landlord. He offered a discount on utilities and a box of mints.
So now I’m working around it.
Sable’s in the other room doing something with a jade roller and a podcast about alien astrology. I’m crouched in the crawlspace behind the kitchen cabinetry, elbow-deep in a cluster of cables that aren’t even connected to anything useful. I’ve already rerouted the power grid through an adaptive phase inverter—technically a war crime in this sector—and installed two motion-scramblers on the third-floor landing.
Not because I expect another sniper today.
But because I do.
I slide out, covered in dust, and tap the arm panel on my gauntlet. A silent wave pulses through the room—infrared, radio, sub-thermal. My HUD flickers with diagnostic data.
No anomalies. No breaches.
“System secure,” I murmur.
“Voltar?” Sable calls from the living room.
“Crawlspace,” I call back.
There’s a pause. “Why are youinthe crawlspace?”
“Upgrading your substructure to reduce acoustic bleed and thermal trace.”
“Say that in Common.”
“Making it harder for someone to track you or hear you breathe.”
She appears in the doorway, wearing leggings and an oversized tunic that saysDon’t Talk To Me Until I’ve Had My Nebula Brew. Her hands are on her hips. Her expression: unimpressed.
“Is that a breach crystal?” she asks, pointing to the orb hovering near the kitchen vent.
“Yes.”
“You’re violating six laws.”
