“Mommy! Mommy look!”
I whirl just in time to catch a flying toddler—mine, thank you very much—barreling toward me with a fistful of frosting and a nose like a sticky missile.
“Whoa! You gonna use that as a weapon or a snack, soldier?”
He giggles, rubbing the icing onto my arm like it’s war paint. His golden eyes flash with pure mischief. My heart trips.
Across the room, Troka watches from the corner.
Not looming—he learned not to loom around Earthlings—but still imposing as hell. He’s crouched low, showing Caelix how to load the hoverball into the launcher without blasting it through the wall.
“Easy there,” Troka rumbles. “That setting’s for... insurgents. Not birthday balloons.”
Caelix squeals.
Troka grins.
I die. Just a little.
“Can we just talk about the fact that he brought thebestgift?” Jorla plops onto the couch beside me, nursing a fizzy and watching them like it’s the best romcom in the quadrant.
“Can we not?”
“He’s got the dad stance. Look. One leg bent. Hip cocked. Arms crossed but loose. Textbook.”
“You’re insane.”
“I’m right.”
She is.
And that’s the problem.
The cake is a disaster.
Lopsided. Icing dripping like lava. Caelix shoves a candle in sideways and declares it perfect.
“Make a wish!” I chirp.
“I wish for... ICE CREAM WITH SPARKLES!”
“Damn, kid. Go big or go home,” Jorla mutters.
We all sing.
Troka’s voice is low and soft, like gravel soaked in honey.
I feel it more than hear it.
And when he leans over to help slice the cake, his fingers brush mine.
I don’t flinch.
I don’t move.
But I feel that touch like a brand.
Later, after the kids crash and the guests leave in a trail of glitter and broken hoverball darts, I sit on the floor in a sea of crumpled wrapping paper.
