Chapter 17
ALAINA
The apartment smells like sugar and plastifoam and just a little bit of panic.
“Alaina, where do you want the juicebots?” Jorla’s already halfway to the kitchen, carrying a bag that’s leaking pink fizzy.
“Counter, if they’re not bleeding neon, thanks.”
“They’re bleeding neon.”
“Then bathtub.”
The living room is chaos. Streamers hanging crooked from the light fixtures, a hoverball target net hanging at a very suspect angle, and three toddlers shrieking like they’ve been given straight caffeine.
Which they probably have. I’m not asking.
“Mommy! Mommy look!”
I whirl just in time to catch a flying toddler—mine, thank you very much—barreling toward me with a fistful of frosting and a nose like a sticky missile.
“Whoa! You gonna use that as a weapon or a snack, soldier?”
He giggles, rubbing the icing onto my arm like it’s war paint. His golden eyes flash with pure mischief. My heart trips.
Across the room, Troka watches from the corner.
Not looming—he learned not to loom around Earthlings—but still imposing as hell. He’s crouched low, showing Caelix how to load the hoverball into the launcher without blasting it through the wall.
“Easy there,” Troka rumbles. “That setting’s for... insurgents. Not birthday balloons.”
Caelix squeals.
Troka grins.
I die. Just a little.
“Can we just talk about the fact that he brought the best gift?” Jorla plops onto the couch beside me, nursing a fizzy and watching them like it’s the best romcom in the quadrant.
“Can we not?”
“He’s got the dad stance. Look. One leg bent. Hip cocked. Arms crossed but loose. Textbook.”
“You’re insane.”
“I’m right.”
She is.
And that’s the problem.
The cake is a disaster.
Lopsided. Icing dripping like lava. Caelix shoves a candle in sideways and declares it perfect.
“Make a wish!” I chirp.
“I wish for... ICE CREAM WITH SPARKLES!”
“Damn, kid. Go big or go home,” Jorla mutters.
We all sing.
Troka’s voice is low and soft, like gravel soaked in honey.
I feel it more than hear it.
And when he leans over to help slice the cake, his fingers brush mine.
I don’t flinch.
I don’t move.
But I feel that touch like a brand.
Later, after the kids crash and the guests leave in a trail of glitter and broken hoverball darts, I sit on the floor in a sea of crumpled wrapping paper.
Caelix is asleep on my chest.
Troka is still here.
Silent.
Present.
Helpful.
Too damn perfect.
“I should thank you,” I murmur. “For today. He had a blast.”
Troka shrugs. “Didn’t do much.”
“You brought a tactical hoverball rig for a toddler.”
“I scaled down the firepower.”
I snort. “You’re lucky he didn’t launch Jorla through the ceiling.”
“She’s small. Would’ve bounced.”
“Don’t tempt her. She’d try.”
He shifts, eyes scanning the room. “You did good, Alaina. He’s... incredible.”
“He’s a menace.”
“Yeah. But a lovable one.”
Something shifts in his tone—softens.
My throat tightens.
“I, uh...” I trail off, fingers curling in Caelix’s little shirt. “Sometimes I think I should’ve told you. Sooner.”
His gaze sharpens. “Told me what?”
“That he likes mushrooms on his pizza. It’s unnatural.”
Troka studies me like he’s reading a war report. “Mushrooms are fungus.”
“Exactly.”
A beat passes.
Then he nods. “Noted. No mushroom pizza.”
The silence between us thickens.
He should ask.
I should speak.
Neither of us does.
“I should get him to bed,” I say finally.
Troka rises, towering and quiet. “Yeah. Sure. I’ll... see you.”
“Thanks again,” I say, forcing a smile.
He hesitates at the door.
“Alaina?”
“Yeah?”
“I wish I’d been here. Sooner.”
Me too.
But I don’t say it.
I just nod.
And let the door shut between us.