33. Troka
TROKA
The storm rolls in like it’s got a personal grudge.
Barrakus weather doesn’t follow rules. It lunges. One minute the sky’s clear, the next it’s black and bruised with clouds fat as star freighters and twice as mean.
I watch from the apartment window as wind hurls grit down the alley like it’s trying to skin the world raw. Rain follows hard and sideways—needle-sharp, almost metallic. It hits the window in waves, like it’s trying to get in.
“Don’t like storms?” Alaina asks behind me.
I grunt. “I don’t like surprises.”
She hums a sound that’s half amusement, half understanding, and drops a blanket over my shoulders. “Barrakus weather’s like you,” she says, moving to the kitchen. “Loud. Moody. Looks worse than it is.”
“Flattering.”
“I try.”
The power flickers once. Twice. Then stays steady, but the lights in the hallway die with a buzz.
“Neighbors’ll be thrilled,” she mutters.
I watch her put on a kettle, her movements automatic, practiced. Her hair’s up in one of those messy knots that always looks like it should fall but never does. She’s barefoot, tank top stretched over one shoulder, soft pants clinging to hips I’ve learned too well to ignore.
And I think, This is it.
This is the closest thing to home I’ve ever felt.
Not a base. Not a barracks. Not even that shitty prefab bunk back when I tried civvie life for five whole minutes after the war.
This.
This storm. This kitchen. Her hums. The smell of warm water and cheap tea leaves.
The sound of Caelix giggling in the other room while his toy croaks some annoying holo song on loop.
It feels like a life.
It feels real.
By the time the emergency alerts go out—flooding in the lower levels, transit shut down, “shelter in place until further notice”—we’ve already settled into a weird little rhythm.
Three days.
Three days trapped in 750 square feet with a toddler and too many unspoken words.
But somehow, it works.
We cook together. Sort of. She yells at me for seasoning too much, I pretend not to understand measurements, she lets me win when the food turns out edible.
Caelix dances to music with one shoe on and peanut butter on his face. Trots up to me mid-spin and demands “up” with all the authority of a tiny king.
I lift him.
Every time.
No questions.
And the kid curls into my side like he’s been doing it since birth.
Like it’s natural.
Alaina watches us sometimes, chewing her lip like she wants to say something. Like there’s something stuck between her ribs trying to claw its way out.
But she doesn’t say it.
Neither do I.
Instead, we laugh.
Over dumb cartoons. Burned toast. The time she tried to teach me a dance move and I knocked over a lamp with my elbow.
“You’ve got the grace of a collapsing tower,” she gasps between wheezing giggles.
“Grace is overrated,” I say, catching her around the waist and twirling her again just to feel her yelp.
It’s stupid.
Perfect.
Terrifying.
On the third night, it happens.
The kind of thing that doesn’t seem like much at first.
Caelix stirs around midnight.
Whimpers through the monitor, small and cracked.
Then, the word.
“Daddy?”
Not “Dada.”
Not a babble.
Daddy.
Clear. Reaching.
Like he’s calling out for someone specific.
Someone he thinks is me.
And before I can even move, Alaina’s already up. Quick. Soft-footed. She moves down the hall like muscle memory and scoops him into her arms with a whisper.
“Shh, baby. Mama’s here. You’re okay.”
She rocks him.
Holds him.
But she doesn’t correct him.
Doesn’t say, “That’s not your daddy.”
Doesn’t look back.
I stay in the dark.
Frozen.
Heart pounding.
Not because I’m scared of the storm.
But because that one word—Daddy—just split me open.
She finds me on the couch an hour later, blanket shoved down, back stiff, staring at the dark window like it owes me answers.
“You’re doing that broody statue thing again,” she says, curling up beside me.
“Didn’t mean to wake you.”
“You didn’t.”
I grunt.
She watches me for a minute.
Then, softly, “What’s wrong?”
I could say it.
Right now.
Could lay it bare. Could demand the truth. Could beg for it.
But I don’t.
Because she’s warm beside me, and Caelix’s asleep down the hall, and for the first time in a long damn while, we aren’t fighting ghosts or each other.
So I lie.
“Nothing.”
She doesn’t buy it.
I can tell.
But she doesn’t push.
Just threads her fingers through mine and leans her head on my shoulder.
And we sit there, breathing together, while the rain claws at the windows and the thunder rolls like a warning we both pretend we don’t hear.
The truth is in the room.
It’s in the silence.
In the space between what we say and what we mean.
It’s watching us.
Waiting.
But tonight?
Tonight it stays quiet.
And so do we.