Chapter 16
TROKA
“You sure this thing ain't harborin' a black hole in the back?” I grunt, heaving the busted hoverfridge onto its side with a metallic whunk.
Alaina, sweat dripping from her brow, snorts. “If it is, at least it'll finally suck the smell outta your boots.”
“You wound me.”
“Good. Means the sarcasm’s working.”
The damn machine groans as I shove my shoulder under it, propping it up so she can jam the fusion socket back into its housing. Her knuckles brush mine and my skin goes electric—hot, aware, too aware.
“I think it’s in,” she says, fiddling with the connector. “Try turning it on.”
I hit the wall panel. The fridge hums to life with a low, even pulse.
“Like new,” I say.
“Like slightly-less-busted,” she mutters, wiping her hands on a rag and leaning back against the counter.
We’re close now. The kitchen smells like citrus cleaner, burnt plasma coils, and something else—her. That warm, sharp-sweet scent that’s branded in my memory like battle ink.
She looks up at me.
I look back.
The moment stretches—taut, trembling.
Then she does it.
Leans in.
Just a soft, questioning press of her lips to mine.
I stop breathing.
She tastes like orange fizzywater and salted tears. Her mouth is warm, tentative, and real. I cup her face—careful, always careful—and kiss her like she’s something holy I’ve been too long denied.
“Troka…” she whispers.
I hum low in my chest, not pulling away, not pushing. Just there. Solid. Hers.
She breaks the kiss first.
Steps back like she touched fire.
“Goodnight,” she says, voice small.
Then she’s gone, the door hissing shut between us.
I stand on her porch like a slab of stone, one hand still hanging in midair, stupid and empty.
I want to knock again. Ask why.
Instead, I turn and walk.
My boots echo down the quiet street, each step heavier than the last.
Later, I’m back in my crashpad, lights low, heat unit ticking.
I punch the wall.
Leave a dent.
Next day, I show up at the dealership like nothing happened.
“Morning, big guy,” the manager grunts.
I grunt back.
Sell two hoverbikes, three beat-up transports, and a reconditioned luxury glider with one seatbelt and no left mirror.
But all I see all damn day is her face.
After my shift, I walk back to her place.
I don’t knock this time.
I wait.
She comes out with the baby on her hip.
Stops cold when she sees me.
“Thought you’d say goodnight. Not... stalk me.”
“I didn’t want to leave it like that.”
“Like what?” she snaps. “A kiss and a fizzle?”
“No. Like... unfinished.”
She sighs. Rocks the baby. “Troka, this isn’t a game.”
“I’m not playing.”
She stares at me, eyes dark and stormy.
“Is he mine?” I ask, voice rough.
She flinches. Doesn’t answer.
“Alaina.”
“Yes,” she lies.
And I feel it. Deep in my bones.
She’s just not ready to say it.
So I step back.
Again.
“You don’t have to tell me,” I say.
Her head jerks up.
“I want to be here. That’s it. No conditions. No demands.”
“Why?” she whispers.
“Because I never stopped wanting you.”
Silence.
Then a nod. Barely.
“Okay,” she says. “Okay.”