“It’s a Mesaarkan flaw,” he said, smiling. “We don’t know how to lie well.”
“Lucky for me.” I stepped closer, watching the water's reflections ripple along the ceiling. “Do you ever miss your people? The home you left?”
“Sometimes,” he said. “But home isn’t a place. It’s whoever still waits for you when you return.”
His eyes met mine when he said it, and something inside me stilled.
“I don’t think anyone’s ever waited for me before,” I said.
“You’re wrong,” he said softly. “I did.”
For a moment, neither of us moved. Then he reached out and brushed a stray hair from my forehead, the touch light, deliberate, and reverent. My breath caught, not from surprise but from the quiet certainty of it.
Outside, the vents exhaled a warm draft that carried the scent of pine and meltwater. The mountain, it seemed, agreed.
By midday, the colony was alive with work again. Humans and Mesaarkans side by side repairing the terraces, replanting seeds, and sealing the cracks the winter storms had left. The hum of conversation filled the halls instead of the silence of fear.
I helped Mara inventory the new medical supplies, labeling each pack with both languages so no one would have to hesitate in an emergency. She watched me with a knowing smile.
“You look different. Lighter.”
“I sleep more,” I said.
“It’s not the sleep.” She set a pack aside. “It’s the reason you have for it.”
I didn’t argue. There was no point pretending anymore.
That night, the colony gathered in the main hall to celebrate the first successful harvest since the raid. The lights glowed a soft gold, and the air was rich with the scent of baking bread and the faint tang of hydroponic crops. Someone played a hand drum, the rhythm slow and steady like a heartbeat.
Rygnar stood beside me at the edge of the crowd. His hand found mine, his thumb tracing small circles across my knuckles. It wasn’t a secret anymore; no one seemed to mind. Even Veklan looked pleased when he raised a glass in our direction.
We weren’t the only mixed couple in the colony. There were more than thirty others and dozens of mixed children.
Mara moved easily through the crowd, pausing beside a tall Mesaarkan male who stayed close at her side. When she laughed, his crest dipped toward her in quiet acknowledgment.
“Hard to believe,” I said, watching the children chase each other between the tables. “Eight years ago, people said Earth was finished.”
“Earth was wounded,” he said. “Not finished.”
“You sound like Raven.”
“He’d take that as a compliment.”
The music shifted to something slower. A few couples began to dance—hesitant steps at first, then laughter as someone tripped and caught balance again. I looked up at him. “Do Mesaarkans dance?”
He tilted his head. “Not well.”
“Good,” I said, pulling him toward the open space. “Then we’ll match.”
He let me lead. His movements were cautious at first, as if the rhythm were a new language he was trying to learn. Then his hand settled at my waist, and the rest of the world faded into the pulse of the drum and the warmth of his touch.
Other couples joined in, but I barely noticed.
When the song ended, the crowd cheered softly, but I barely heard them. I was too busy memorizing the way his smile reached his eyes.
The music faded slowly.
Human instruments. Mesaarkan percussion. The rhythm had carried us through the courtyard until laughter replaced formality and the lines between species blurred.
