Chapter 9
LUNA
Ilook different. It’s not the lighting. It’s not the mirror being warped from years of steam.
It’s me. My fingertips trace the edges of my lips like they’re someone else’s, like maybe I can still feel him there, etched into the softness from last night.
My skin glows faintly, flushed in a way that’s got nothing to do with temperature.
But beneath it all, there’s something curled in my gut—a gnawing twist of guilt, shame, and something worse.
Hope.
I shake my head and pull my hair back into a tie. The reflection stares back at me, and she looks like a woman walking a wire stretched taut over a pit. Stupid. Stupid, stupid. I was supposed to be stronger than this. I let him in. Into my bed. Into my arms. Into my life again.
“Mama!”
Solie’s voice slices through the fog, bright and bubbling.
Her little feet patter down the hall like a herd of miniature stampeding rhinos.
She crashes into me at full speed, arms looping around my waist like she’s never going to let go.
I stagger, but catch her instinctively, holding her to my side.
She’s warm, all tangled curls and too-big pajama sleeves.
“Did you know I dreamed about a dragon who had sparkles for wings?” she chirps, eyes wide and gold and so full of wonder it physically hurts.
“No, really? Sparkles?”
“Uh-huh. And he let me ride on his back, but we had to be careful ‘cause there were bad guys with nets trying to catch us. But the dragon was really fast and we got away and then—Mama?”
Her voice dips when she looks up at me. I must be making a face. Something strained.
“I’m just tired, baby,” I lie, kneeling down so we’re face-to-face. I brush a loose curl off her forehead and plant a kiss there. “You and your dragons, huh? Maybe you should start writing these dreams down.”
Solie beams. “That’s what I told Mr. Bunny!”
“Oh well, if Mr. Bunny says so…”
She giggles, and my chest tightens with a terrifying, protective ache. I pull her in and squeeze her close. “I love you more than anything in this whole dumb universe.”
“I love you more than spaceships,” she says, serious as a heart attack.
I almost laugh. Instead, I breathe her in.
Her scent’s a cocktail of little kid—fabric softener, crumbs, and some dusty hint of something that always reminds me she’s not entirely human.
A subtle musk that never quite washes out.
I press my lips to her hair and hold on like I can stop the world from spinning.
Like I can pretend that I’m not hiding a galaxy-sized secret from her. From Kraj. From everyone.
But I can’t pretend for long. Not anymore.
Later that afternoon, I pack Solie’s medpatch and an old power cell into a shoulder bag and tell the crèche staff I need a quick errand run.
Solie waves goodbye with both hands and a crooked grin, completely unaware of the war I’m waging in my own head.
The tram to the medical outpost bumps along its rails, old suspension whining like a banshee on the curves.
The whole way there, I rehearse what I’m going to say.
“Elin, how do you tell a man you slept with last night that he’s the father of your child you’ve been hiding from him for three years?”
No. Too blunt.
“Elin, you ever kept a secret so long it grew roots?”
Ugh.
“Hey, remember that time I told you Solie’s dad ran off before I could tell him I was pregnant? What if I lied?”
Nothing sounds right. It never will.
The clinic sits in the shadow of an old cargo crane, converted into a patchwork med center and solar array. Elin greets me with a crooked smile and tired eyes. She’s always got that same lavender scarf wrapped around her throat, like a second skin, and smells like antiseptic and citrus oil.
“Power cell dead again?” she asks, taking the device from me.
“Yeah,” I say. “Cheap knockoff. Won’t hold a charge.”
She sets it on the workbench and hooks it into a diagnostic port, then gestures for me to sit. “You look like you didn’t sleep.”
“Didn’t,” I admit. “I was… distracted.”
“By tall, scaly, and brooding?” Elin says with a knowing smirk.
I blink. “What?”
“Oh, come on. You think no one notices the big red lizard hanging around Wildwood like he’s not seven feet of muscle and mystery? Half the settlement’s been watching the two of you like it’s a telenovela.”
I groan and bury my face in my hands. “Please tell me you’re kidding.”
Elin just laughs, a soft, breezy sound that makes the world feel a little less sharp around the edges. “Luna, honey, no offense, but you glow like a damn sunlamp today. And trust me, that ain’t from vitamin D deficiency.”
I want to argue. But instead, my shoulders sag. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“Good. Means you’re not lying to yourself.
” She hands me a cup of rehydrated orange blossom tea—tastes like soap and nostalgia—and leans against the counter.
“Look, I don’t know your whole story. I’ve never pushed.
But I do know you’re one of the most stubborn, guarded women I’ve ever met.
So if you let someone in… even a little? That means something.”
“I don’t know if it’s safe.”
“Is it ever?”
I sip the tea, grateful and annoyed all at once. “He doesn’t know.”
“About Solie?”
I nod.
Elin exhales slow. “And what happens if he finds out from someone else? Or worse… if he doesn’t find out and disappears again?”
A sharp pang pierces my chest. I squeeze the ceramic mug like it’s the only thing keeping me grounded.
“I’m scared,” I whisper.
“Good. Means it matters.”
We don’t say anything for a while. Just the quiet hum of the power cell charging.
I think about Kraj’s hands on me, the way his voice softened when he spoke to me last night, the look in his eyes when he thought I wasn’t watching.
Like I was something sacred. Something he didn’t deserve but wanted anyway.
I finish the tea and leave the medpatch in Elin’s care, promising to pick it up later. Outside, the sky burns with Arkosh’s late afternoon palette—amber clouds smeared across a fading orange sky. The wind kicks up dust that clings to my boots and chaps my cheeks, but I don’t rush.
I need this moment to breathe. Because tonight… I think I’m going to have to decide. Truth or safety. Love or distance.
Maybe Elin’s right. Maybe I do deserve happiness.
But what if it costs me everything?
I’m not staring at him.
That’s the lie I tell myself as I sit in the dim little command booth, fingers pretending to fly across the console as the system spits out shipping manifests I don’t care about.
Outside the dusty window, heat shimmers off the duracrete as another skiff lifts off, engines whining like dying wasps.
I pretend to check the status of a supply pallet, but really, I’m watching him.
Kraj stands by the main road, one arm leaning against the fence like he’s part of the scenery.
He’s chatting with a freighter pilot—a heavyset guy with one cybernetic eye and a laugh that carries even over the hiss of cooling vents.
I should look away. Hell, I should’ve stopped watching the second I recognized his broad shoulders and that easy, confident slouch that used to make me melt.
But I don’t.
Not until he glances up and meets my eyes through the grime-streaked glass.
That look—soft, deep, knowing—sinks its claws in.
I snap my gaze back to the console like a guilty teenager and slam my hand on the “close shift” icon with too much force.
By the time I shut down the booth and start locking up, he’s gone.
The air feels thicker without him in it.
I hate that I notice.
Later, after I’ve bathed Solie and gotten her into bed—after reading her the same damn story about a talking moonfish and a bubble car for the third time—there’s a knock on the outer hatch.
I freeze mid-step, hand tightening on Solie’s toy basket.
My heart kicks against my ribs like it’s trying to escape.
Three short knocks. Then a pause. Then two more.
He used to knock like that, back in the IHC base housing where we had to keep things quiet.
I open the hatch.
Kraj stands there, holding a weathered cloth bundle. The faint scent of ozone and spice follows him in like a shadow. He doesn’t speak. Just unwraps the bundle and holds it out to me.
A desert fruit. Smooth, orange-red skin that glistens in the hallway light. Rare. Sweet. Expensive.
“It reminded me of you,” he says, voice low and rough like he’s afraid I might slam the door in his face again.
I want to.
But I don’t.
Instead, I open the screen wider. “Come on.”
We don’t sit inside.
I take him out to the narrow balcony that overlooks the dusty trade strip. The solar lamp flickers overhead, buzzing softly, casting our shadows like ghosts against the cracked stucco walls. I hand him a glass of reclaimed water, and we sit—side by side but not touching.
“You didn’t have to bring anything,” I murmur.
He shrugs, setting the fruit carefully on the table. “Didn’t know what else to give you.”
There’s a silence that settles between us, not quite comfortable but not hostile either.
I find myself telling him about a broken water main last week, about how Solie tried to convince me there were lizard fairies living in the cabinets.
He laughs—really laughs—and it’s not the low, sarcastic chuckle I used to associate with his spy facade.
It’s warm. Full-bodied. Like something human.
“You still sleep with the fan running?” he asks softly after a moment.
I blink.
“Yeah.”
“Even when it’s cold?”
“Especially then.”
He nods, a slow smile curling at the edge of his mouth. “You said the sound reminded you of ocean waves.”
I don’t remember telling him that.
I want to be mad that he remembers it at all.
But something in my chest aches instead.
I should end the night here.
Say goodnight, thank him for the fruit, send him back to whatever hole he’s sleeping in.
But I don’t get the chance.
The soft patter of tiny feet stops me.
Solie, pajama-clad and rubbing her eyes, steps into the doorway, her hair a wild halo of gold in the lamplight. “Mama?” she mumbles.
My heart leaps into my throat.
She hasn’t seen him yet.
I rise fast. “Hey, baby, what’re you doing up? You should be in—”
Then she sees him.
Her little face lights up like a solar flare.
“Oh!” she exclaims, skipping forward without hesitation. “Hi, mister!”
My breath stops. Every nerve in my body goes taut.
Kraj stiffens visibly but doesn’t move. He just looks at her. Really looks. His eyes take in every inch of her—her golden eyes, her high cheekbones, her unruly curls. For a split second, I swear the whole world tilts.
Solie toddles to my side, wraps her arms around my leg, and peeks up at him. “You have funny eyes,” she declares with a toothy grin. “Like fire.”
I pray. Silently. Desperately. That he won’t see what’s right in front of him.
He crouches low, his big body moving with slow, deliberate grace, claws retracted so as not to scare her.
“Hi there, little firefly,” he says, voice softer than I’ve ever heard it. He offers her one clawed hand, palm up.
Solie giggles, placing her tiny fingers in his. “You’re warm,” she says.
“So are you,” he replies, smiling.
I want to cry.
I want to scream.
I want to kiss him until I forget all the reasons I should stay away.
Solie yawns and leans into my side again. “I’m sleepy.”
“Let’s get you to bed,” I whisper, scooping her up. Her head drops to my shoulder, breath evening out.
Kraj stands as I do, stepping back like he knows his time is up.
“She’s sweet,” he says, low.
“Yeah.”
“Her father...?”
“Not in the picture,” I answer before he can finish the question, voice sharper than I mean it to be.
He nods, lips tight, jaw working.
I wish I didn’t want to explain.
I wish I didn’t feel like maybe I owe him something.
But I can’t. Not yet.
“I should go,” he murmurs.
“Yeah.”
He lingers just a second longer, gaze flicking between me and Solie like he’s trying to piece together a puzzle without the corner pieces.
“Thanks,” I say softly, nodding to the fruit.
He doesn’t respond. Just turns and disappears into the night.
I stand there, holding my daughter close, heart a battlefield of lies and longing.