Chapter 7 Hada
HADA
“Absolutely not.”
Sylas stands in the center of our living space, arms crossed, watching me unpack the third box of Christmas decorations with the expression of someone observing a minor catastrophe in progress. His bioluminescent markings pulse with what I’ve learned to recognize as barely controlled exasperation.
“It’s December fifteenth,” I point out, holding up a string of lights that probably predates faster-than-light travel. “If we’re going to do this right, we need to start now.”
“Define ‘this.’“
“Christmas. For Aniska.” I gesture toward the baby, who sits in her adaptive chair watching our exchange with the focused attention of someone who understands far more than she should. “Her first Christmas, which means it needs to be perfect.”
“Perfect.” He repeats the word like it’s a foreign concept requiring translation. “And perfect requires… that?”
“That” is a collection of Earth holiday decorations I’ve accumulated since my first deployment. Mismatched ornaments, tangled light strings, an artificial tree that folds into something resembling festive vegetation, and enough holiday spirit to power a small space station.
“Among other things, yes.”
Sylas moves closer to examine the contents of the boxes, his expression shifting from exasperation to something approaching anthropological fascination. “Explain the cultural significance of these objects.”
“They’re not objects, they’re memories.” I lift out a crystalline ornament that catches the soft light from his wall panels, casting rainbow patterns across the ceiling.
“This was my grandmother’s. She gave it to me before my first off-world assignment, said it would remind me of home no matter how far I traveled. ”
His markings soften to warm amber as he watches me handle the delicate piece. “Sentimental attachment to material possessions.”
“Sentimental attachment to what those possessions represent. Love, family, the feeling of belonging somewhere.” I set the ornament carefully on the table, then turn to meet his gaze. “Things I want Aniska to understand, even if her family looks different than traditional human structures.”
“Ah.” Understanding flickers across his features. “This isn’t about religious observance or cultural tradition. It’s about creating shared experiences that bond family units together.”
“Exactly.” I pull out another string of lights, these ones designed to pulse in rhythm with ambient sound.
“Margot used to talk about the Christmases she had as a kid. How her parents would make everything magical, even when they couldn’t afford much.
She wanted that for Aniska—the sense that she was part of something bigger than herself. ”
“And you intend to provide that experience.”
“We intend to provide it.” I pause in my unpacking to study his face, noting the way his expression has shifted from skepticism to something approaching curiosity. “Unless you have philosophical objections to holiday festivities.”
“Zephyrian culture includes celebration of seasonal transitions and community milestones. The specific traditions differ, but the underlying purpose—strengthening social bonds through shared ritual—is universal.”
“So, you’re not completely opposed to Christmas.”
“I’m opposed to chaos masquerading as celebration.” He gestures toward the boxes, which admittedly look like the aftermath of a festive explosion. “Your approach appears to prioritize quantity over organization.”
I can’t help laughing at the careful diplomacy in his criticism. “That’s because human Christmas decorating isn’t about organization. It’s about controlled chaos that somehow transforms into magic.”
“Controlled chaos.” He considers this concept with the same intensity he brings to spiritual meditation. “That seems contradictory.”
“Most worthwhile things are.” I smile wide.
The comment earns me one of his rare genuine smiles—not the polite expression he wears during official interactions, but the warmth that transforms his entire face and makes my chest tight with feelings I’m still learning to navigate.
We’ve been careful since that first kiss mere days ago.
Affectionate but restrained, aware that whatever’s building between us needs to develop alongside our responsibilities to Aniska rather than in spite of them.
But moments like this, when his guard drops enough to let me see the man beneath the spiritual leader, make that restraint increasingly difficult to maintain.
“Where do we begin?” he asks, moving toward the boxes with the decisive energy of someone committing to a project.
“Tree first. Everything else builds from there.”
The artificial tree proves more challenging than anticipated.
What should be a simple matter of unfolding pre-programmed branches becomes an exercise in engineering as we struggle to make synthetic vegetation look remotely natural.
Sylas approaches the problem with methodical precision while I rely on intuition and increasingly creative profanity.
“This branch attaches here,” he observes, consulting the instruction manual with the dedication of someone translating ancient texts.
“That branch attaches wherever it looks right,” I counter, wrestling with a section that seems determined to fold in directions that defy three-dimensional space.
“There are specific connection points designed for optimal visual impact—”
“Forget optimal visual impact. Christmas trees are supposed to be slightly imperfect. It’s part of their charm.”
Aniska watches our debate from her chair, making soft sounds that might be commentary or encouragement. Her empathic field radiates contentment mixed with amusement, as if she finds our bickering entertaining rather than concerning.
“She’s laughing at us,” I realize.
Sylas pauses in his systematic approach to tree assembly, his head tilting as he processes Aniska’s emotional output. “Not laughing. Enjoying the emotional resonance between us. She finds our dynamic… satisfying.”
“Our dynamic?”
“The way we challenge each other while working toward common goals. She experiences it as a form of play rather than conflict.”
I study his face, noting the slight flush that colors his pale skin. The empathic connection we all share means Aniska feels everything we feel—including the attraction that sparks between us whenever we’re in close proximity.
“So, she knows,” I say quietly.
“That we care about each other? Yes. That we’re attracted to each other? Also, yes.” His markings pulse with what might be embarrassment. “Empathic children don’t understand the difference between emotional and physical connection. To her, it’s all one continuous spectrum of affection.”
“Is that a problem?”
“I don’t know. There’s no precedent for raising empathic children in romantically complex environments.”
“Romantically complex.” I can’t help smiling at his clinical description of whatever this is between us. “Is that what we’re calling it?”
“Would you prefer a different term?”
“I’d prefer we stop overthinking it and focus on making our daughter’s first Christmas magical.”
The words slip out before I can examine their implications, but I don’t take them back.
Because that’s what she is, isn’t she? Not legally, not officially, but in every way that matters.
Aniska is our daughter, and we’re her family, and Christmas is about celebrating the people you love regardless of how traditional that love might look.
Sylas goes very still, his hands frozen on the tree branch he was positioning. “Our daughter.”
“Yes.”
“Not just joint custody or shared responsibility.”
“No.” I move around the half-assembled tree to stand closer to him, near enough to see the silver flecks in his eyes and the way his markings shift color with emotional intensity. “She’s ours, Sylas. We’re her parents in every way that counts.”
“And we’re…”
“Whatever we decide to be. Partners, co-parents, something more if we want.” I reach up to touch the bioluminescent patterns that trace his jawline, feeling the electric warmth that seems to generate wherever we make contact.
“But first, we finish this tree so our daughter can have the Christmas she deserves.”
His smile this time carries enough intensity to make my knees weak. “Our daughter.”
“Our daughter.”
The tree comes together more easily after that, as if acknowledging our commitment to this improvised family removes some invisible barrier to cooperation.
Sylas’s systematic approach combines with my creative chaos to produce something that’s neither perfectly organized nor completely random—a compromise that somehow works better than either method alone.
“Lights next,” I announce, pulling out the first string and checking for dead bulbs.
“These emit electromagnetic radiation in the visible spectrum,” Sylas observes, examining the LED array with scientific curiosity. “Similar to our bioluminescent displays but externally generated.”
“They’re pretty,” I translate. “And they make everything feel warm and safe and magical.”
“Psychological comfort through sensory stimulation.”
“You’re really going to analyze every aspect of this, aren’t you?”
“I’m trying to understand the cultural significance so I can participate appropriately.” He pauses, color rising in his cheeks again. “I want to do this right. For Aniska. For you.”
The admission hits me somewhere in the region of my heart, carrying more emotional impact than any declaration of love could have managed.
He’s stepping outside his comfort zone, learning to navigate human traditions he doesn’t fully understand, because he wants to give us both something meaningful.
“Sylas.” I set down the lights and move to stand directly in front of him, close enough that I have to tip my head back to meet his eyes. “You don’t have to understand everything to participate. Sometimes the magic is in the doing, not the analysis.”
“That’s terrifying.”
“Good terrifying or bad terrifying?”