Caelix is asleep on my chest.
Troka is still here.
Silent.
Present.
Helpful.
Too damn perfect.
“I should thank you,” I murmur. “For today. He had a blast.”
Troka shrugs. “Didn’t do much.”
“You brought a tactical hoverball rig for a toddler.”
“I scaled down the firepower.”
I snort. “You’re lucky he didn’t launch Jorla through the ceiling.”
“She’s small. Would’ve bounced.”
“Don’t tempt her. She’d try.”
He shifts, eyes scanning the room. “You did good, Alaina. He’s... incredible.”
“He’s a menace.”
“Yeah. But a lovable one.”
Something shifts in his tone—softens.
My throat tightens.
“I, uh...” I trail off, fingers curling in Caelix’s little shirt. “Sometimes I think I should’ve told you. Sooner.”
His gaze sharpens. “Told me what?”
“That he likes mushrooms on his pizza. It’s unnatural.”
Troka studies me like he’s reading a war report. “Mushrooms are fungus.”
“Exactly.”
A beat passes.
Then he nods. “Noted. No mushroom pizza.”
The silence between us thickens.
He should ask.
I should speak.
Neither of us does.
“I should get him to bed,” I say finally.
