Pepper slides into the seat beside me. “Daddy,” she says, pointing at the jam, “give me the squirty.”
I lean over. “Here you go, Space-Pirate Commander.” I hand it. She squirts it on bread, shoots a smudge at me.
I pretend to chase her. She squeals. Crew members glance. Phones rise. I don’t care. The barrier between us is thinning. The hesitation in her eyes is fading.
Meanwhile, Liora watches—softening. I sense it. I don’t push. I let her keep the wall for now. Everything else feels right.
That night we eat together. Not with the stunt team. Not with fake-blood spills and props nearby. Just us. A corner booth in a diner near the studio. The smell: fry-oil, sugar donuts, the low buzz of Tuesday-night hangers-on. Pepper eats pancakes, syrup drip on her chin. I lap milk like a kid.
Liora takes my hand across the table. Her fingers are warm. I taste vanilla on her breath. I look into her eyes: chocolate-brown, tired, hopeful. The barrier flares, then dims. She lets me in a little more.
“You were good today,” she says quietly.
I grin. “Thanks.”
She swallows. “She adores you.”
“She’s got good taste.”
There’s laughter—her genuine laugh. I lean back and enjoy the sound.
Pepper hogs pancakes. I wipe syrup from her cheek. I smell maple, feel her cheek soft, hear her giggle.
After dinner, I drop them off at the apartment. I carry Pepper to bed. The apartment smells of jam, microwave woodchip dinner, faint promise of clean sheets. I set her down, she hugs me, then runs off with a toy spaceship.
I suddenly find myself beside Liora’s door. She opens it, tired eyes, costume half-off. She hugs me. I slip in.
“I’m not leaving,” I whisper.
She nods. “Thank you.”
We sit on the couch. I pull a worn throw over us. The TV screen glows old-world: a black-and-white flicker of an Earth war film. The smell of popcorn and stale soda lingers. I press my head against her shoulder.
She kisses my temple—soft, slow. Not hunger. Not desperation. Rooted. Real.
I whisper, “Home.”
Dreams come easy when love bleeds into everyday. I sleep the first night in years without training fight-scenes flashing behind my lids. Instead I dream of a little girl climbing battlements, screaming in delight, and of a woman with soft lips, calling meyes.
Morning light smells like laundry and breakfast promises.
And as I rise, the world feels different. Not perfect. Not over. But good.
Because I’ve found something worth guarding. I move to Pepper’s bedroom, watch her in slumber as my chest tightens. Pepper sleeps like she fights—full-tilt, reckless, utterly unbothered by the universe. I stand in the doorway of Liora’s tiny apartment, one hand braced on the frame, watching the little creature burrow under her blanket like she’s tunneling through a trench system only she can see.
Her soft breaths fill the room, a faint squeak at the end of each exhale. She smells like shampoo—berries, something artificial and too sweet—but underneath is the truth: my bloodline, faint but steady. Silver-thread scent, the kind only a Reaper nose can pick apart from the rest of the world.
I crouch beside her tiny bed, my knees brushing discarded stuffed animals, a broken holo-projector, and a pair of shoes she insisted on wearing backwards earlier. Her tiny brow twitches. Her nose scrunches.
I whisper, “What are you fighting in there, little warrior?”
She mumbles something that sounds like “pancakes.” I almost laugh. Almost.
My claws soften back into my fingers. I brush a stray curl behind her ear. The hum of her inducer vibrates against my fingertip—barely audible, barely detectable, but still there. Still masking her. Still keeping her safe.
It shouldn’t have to.
I study her face. She has Liora’s jawline. My cheekbones. Her tiny hands curl into fists when she dreams. Reaper reflex. Human softness. Perfect blend. My chest tightens and expands at the same time.
