“Looks like it,” mutters the dealership manager beside me, sipping his stim-juice. “He’s an idiot. But he’s our idiot.”
For the next hour, I watch Troka work the lot like it’s a battleground. Only instead of plasma cannons, it’s customers, and instead of grenades, it’s sarcasm.
“This one’ll rattle your fillings out. Still want it?”
“That model’s a deathtrap unless you like livingdangerously.”
“Fast? Sure. If you’re being chased by sloths.”
And somehow? Every single one of themlovesit. The brutal honesty. The dry humor. Even the kids—one tiny boy clambers up Troka’s leg like it’s a jungle gym and the big brute just... lets him. Rumbles a laugh that feels like a heartbeat under my skin.
Caelix watches wide-eyed, perched on my chest, and then he does the thing.
The thing that kills me.
He reaches one chubby hand toward Troka and says, “Bah.”
Troka turns. Sees him. That slow smile of his unfurls like thunderclouds cracking apart.
“Hey, little starclinger,” he rumbles, walking over and ruffling Caelix’s hair. “You causing trouble already?”
Caelix coos and pats his chest.
My heart flinches.Hard.
Back home, I can’t stop fidgeting.
Dinner’s eaten. Dishes are done. Caelix is in bed. Troka's across from me on my couch, knees nearly knocking over the coffee table, nursing a bottle of fizzwater like it’s actual booze.
“You did good today,” I say.
He shrugs. “Didn’t punch anyone.”
“Low bar, buddy. But yes. Youdidgood.” I pull my knees up under me. “You were... kinda amazing.”
“Don’t say that.”
“Why not?”
“Feels like a setup.”
I roll my eyes. “Not everything’s an ambush.”
He glances at me, golden eyes catching the lamplight. “You’d make a damn good sniper.”
“Flattery?” I grin. “Fromyou?”
“Mark the calendar.”
A beat passes. I exhale through my nose.
“You’re good with him,” I whisper. “With Caelix.”
He stiffens just slightly. “He’s a good kid.”
“He’s smart. Sharp. Too observant for his own good.”
Troka nods. “Wonder where he gets it.”
