And we sit there, breathing together, while the rain claws at the windows and the thunder rolls like a warning we both pretend we don’t hear.
The truth is in the room.
It’s in the silence.
In the space between what we say and what wemean.
It’s watching us.
Waiting.
But tonight?
Tonight it stays quiet.
And so do we.
CHAPTER 34
ALAINA
The shoes don’t fit.
I stare down at Caelix’s feet poking out from his favorite too-small sneakers—one strap hanging loose, the other trying to hold on like it's got something to prove—and my throat gets tight.
“Hold still, baby,” I murmur, crouching in front of him.
He giggles, wild curls flopping as he sways like he’s dodging laserfire instead of my hands.
“Caelix,” I warn with a soft laugh, grabbing his ankle. “You’re gonna bust these seams if I don’t pry them off.”
He babbles something half-word, half-magic, and points dramatically at the mess of crumbs he dropped by the door this morning, already long forgotten.
He’s growing too fast.
One minute he was barely standing. Now he’s sprinting through the apartment like a tiny cyclone, full of questions, soft fists, and a laugh that sounds like sunlight in motion.
And every day, his face shifts.
Every day, I seehimin those eyes—Troka’s stubborn brow, his crooked smirk when Caelix’s up to something, the way hewatches me like he already knows I’m not telling him the whole truth.
I press a kiss to his foot and straighten with a sigh.
“We’re getting new shoes today. Right now,” I say, grabbing the diaper bag and slinging it over my shoulder. “And maybe a snack. Maybe three. Depends how long Mama keeps pretending everything’s okay.”
The mall smells like synth-donuts,fried protein, and that artificial ozone scent they pump through the air vents to make it feel “clean.” I hate it.
Too many people.
Too many sounds.
Caelix loves it.
He chatters like a cracked holo chip from his seat in the shopping cart, pointing at every toy display and snack vendor we pass like he's building a wishlist for a future where we’re all made of credits.
I keep one hand on the cart handle, the other hovering near my hip where the stun pin’s clipped under my sweater.
Old habits. War-era reflexes.
