Chapter 29 Naull
NAULL
Garma reaches for me with both hands—tiny, claw-tipped fingers that curl in the air like instinct knows I’m his before words do.
His eyes are gold like mine, but lighter, molten-sun bright.
There’s a flicker of confusion in them when I don’t move right away, just freeze like my spine’s fused.
Aria’s behind him, crouched, one steadying hand on his shoulder, her other still holding that damn tablet she’s barely looked away from for weeks.
Her mouth is slightly open, like she’s waiting to see if this moment—
It might.
“Daddy.”
That’s what he says.
That’s what he calls me.
“Daddy.”
He takes a step forward. Wobbly. Brave.
I drop to my knees without thinking.
He barrels into me, all warmth and weight and babbled half-syllables, and I catch him against my chest like the universe just handed me the only thing worth surviving for.
He smells like fabric softener and static, like Aria’s shampoo and something wild underneath—like storm winds and new roots.
His little tail flicks once, brushing my side.
I’m crying.
I don’t even realize it until Aria’s hand brushes my shoulder, warm and steady, and I feel the wetness on my cheeks. I turn to look at her, and she’s blinking fast, lashes clumped together, mouth trembling.
“You okay?” she whispers.
I can’t speak.
I just nod, pressing my forehead to Garma’s tiny one. His skin is soft. Warmer than I expected. He giggles. Gods help me, he giggles like it’s the most natural thing in the world to be held by someone who never knew he existed until ten minutes ago.
The station smells like ozone and polish.
The air's cleaner than Rhavadaz by miles, but it’s too bright.
Too sharp. Like reality hasn’t caught up yet.
People are clapping. Someone’s whistling.
A tech yells something about Whiplash needing a complete overhaul and Cowley’s gruff voice snaps a response, something clipped and bureaucratic.
None of it matters.
Garma squirms in my arms and then pats my cheek. “You’re big,” he says, serious as anything.
I laugh, shaky. “You’re not wrong.”
“Your scales are shiny.”
I glance at Aria, who’s laughing softly now, shoulders shaking.
“He gets that from you,” I say.
She rolls her eyes. “Hardly. You’re the one who preens.”
I tuck Garma closer. “I never knew I could love something this fast.”
Her smile fades. Not in a bad way. Just softer now. Tired. Wary.
“I was gonna tell you,” she says. “I just... didn’t know how.”
“I get it.”
“You mad?”
“Not even a little.”
She leans her weight against my side, just slightly. Garma nestles between us like he’s always belonged there.
And maybe he has.
I kiss his forehead.
Victory doesn’t usually look like this.
But gods, I’ll take it.
And I’ll never let it go.
The suite’s quiet.
Too quiet, after everything.
After Rhavadaz. After the Meld. After Garma saying “Daddy” and detonating something in my chest I didn’t know I’d been holding back for years.
The walls here are smooth, pale gray alloy with soft-blue lighting recessed behind panels.
Sterile, if I’m being honest, but Aria made it feel warm somehow.
She always does. There’s a cot folded out in the corner—Garma’s—surrounded by plush animals some engineer must’ve raided from the medbay rec room.
A ridiculous little plush kaiju grins at me from his pillow like it’s in on the joke.
He’s out cold. Arms flung wide. Tiny chest rising and falling like he fought the same war we did and came out whole.
Aria’s curled up against me on the main bed, one leg tossed over mine, cheek pressed to my shoulder like she owns the space between us. Which—hell—she kinda does. Her breath ghosts warm across my collarbone, her fingers trailing lazy, distracted patterns through the scales on my chest.
“Stop thinking so loud,” she mutters.
I smirk, eyes half-lidded. “Can’t help it.”
“You’re vibrating.”
“That’s my default state.”
She huffs a laugh, soft and tired. Her hand pauses over my heart.
“Do you think we’re ready?” she asks.
I don’t answer right away. Let the quiet stretch between us. The suite’s soundproofed, but I can still feel the weight of the orbital station humming around us—systems cycling, gravity stabilizers thrumming low and constant.
“No,” I finally say. “But we’re willing.”
She lifts her head just enough to meet my gaze. Her eyes are shadowed in the low light, deep brown with specks of gold that catch even the faintest reflection. “That supposed to be comforting?”
“Supposed to be honest.”
She presses her forehead to mine. “I can’t tell if that’s more terrifying or more perfect.”
“Why not both?”
A laugh catches in her throat. “Gods, I hate how much sense that makes.”
We fall quiet again. Not the kind of silence that begs to be filled. Just breathing. Just existing.
The Meld flickers between us now without warning.
Not the full sync—no neural bands, no artificial bridge.
Just little pulses. Glimpses. I’ll think something—about the way Garma curls his tail when he dreams, or how Aria’s laugh feels like gravity flipped—and she’ll shift, smile, hum like she felt it too. Because she did.
The connection’s not perfect. It glitches. It misfires.
But it’s real.
She closes her eyes, fingers resuming their slow path down my chest. “He’s going to ask soon.”
I know what she means.
Garma.
Where we go next. Who we are. Why we kept fighting.
And we won’t have easy answers.
“Whatever we tell him,” I say, “we tell him together.”
“Even the ugly parts?”
I nod. “Especially those.”
She exhales, long and slow, and for a second I think she might drift off.
Then, just when I think sleep has claimed her—
“Marry me someday.”
The words are quiet. Almost timid.
I blink, eyes snapping open.
I turn my head, just enough to see her face.
She’s not smiling. Not exactly. She looks… terrified. Hopeful.
Like maybe she meant to think it, not say it.
And it slipped through the Meld anyway.
I grin, slow and wide.
“We already did,” I say.
She blinks. “What?”
I nudge her nose with mine. “Remember? Fire. Screaming. Falling from orbit. Joint trauma. That’s the Vakutan bonding rite.”
She rolls her eyes, but her laugh is pure sunlight. “That doesn’t count.”
“Says who?”
“Says me.”
I run my fingers through her hair, slow and careful. “Then yeah. Someday. I’ll marry you.”
She hums, eyes slipping closed again.
“That’s enough,” she whispers.
And it is.
It really is.