The boy claims the loft. He paints stars on the walls in holo-lumens that pulse with each constellation. Reflector hums with pride, uploading every moment into his self-assembled family archive. He’s started calling it “The Ember Index.” Overdramatic as hell, but then, he did live through us.
I spend my mornings on the roof with a mug of triple-roasted stimcaf, outlining scripts.
The holonet offered me a show.
I gave them a legend.
It’s a children’s series—wildly exaggerated, absolutely ridiculous. “The Tales of the Crimson Warrior.” Animated,glossy, full of moral dilemmas and aerial combat and talking jungle beasts with laser tusks. Garokk grumbled the first time I pitched it.
“You’re making me into a clown.”
“You were already a clown,” I replied.
He sulked for half a day.
Then he watched the pilot three times in a row and secretly ordered three plushies of his character model.
“I just want Pyramus to have a version of the story that doesn’t bleed,” I told him.
He didn’t argue after that.
Speaking of the boy—he’s thriving. Flourishing, really. There's something untamed in him, but not wild. Not dangerous. It’s like watching a nova build inside a seed. Garokk teaches him Vakutan history in the afternoons—combat stances in the evenings.
They wrestle in the garden until one of them ends up breathless. Usually Garokk. Usually proud.
I can hear them now.
Through the window.
“Tail swipes are cheating,” Pyramus shouts.
“Survival doesn’t have rules,” Garokk grins back.
“Then you’re not teaching me history. You’re just losing at it!”
I laugh.
Later, when the sun’s dipped low enough to splash gold over the cliffs, we curl up on the couch. Same one every night. The cushions are too small for Garokk’s shoulders, but he doesn’t complain. My head fits perfectly against his chest. His heartbeat is slow, grounded. Like a war drum that’s finally learned peace.
I brush my fingers over one of his old scars.
He catches my wrist gently.
“No regrets?” I ask.
He kisses my temple.
“Only that we didn’t burn the past sooner.”
I shift, smirking.
“You still brutal?”
He doesn’t miss a beat.
“Only for you.”
And stars, if that doesn’t hit somewhere between my ribs and my soul.
