I hesitate.
Because showing her means admitting I’ve been thinking about this.
A lot.
“Plans,” I say.
“For what?”
“A backyard play area. Fully enclosed. Anti-grav field. Adjustable equipment for mixed-species use. Safety foam—because you humans are squishy.”
She raises a brow. “You designing a playground?”
“Not just any playground.Theplayground.”
She stares at me.
“You’re serious.”
“Dead.”
“Why?”
“Because he deserves it.”
There’s a pause.
A long one.
The kid babbles in the background, humming some made-up song about a hoverpup and a sky biscuit.
Alaina’s voice drops.
“You keep doing stuff like this, Troka.”
“Like what?”
“Being... good.”
I blink. “That a problem?”
“It makes it harder to be mad at you.”
I set the flexscreen down on the table, gentle, like it’s breakable.
“I’m not leavin’, Alaina. Not again.”
Her breath hitches.
I hear it. Feel it.
“Even if you tell me to. Even if you throw that busted motor at my head. I’m stayin’.”
She laughs—tight, nervous.
“Why?”
“You ask a lot of whys.”
