“Like you want to eat her face. In front of a child. Disgusting.”
Corinne laughed, the sound bright and musical. “Anya.”
“I’m just saying. If you two start making out, I’m taking Mikoz and leaving.”
“Noted,” Corinne said, still smiling. “We’ll keep all face-eating to times when you’re not around.”
“I hate you both.”
But Anya was smiling too, a real smile that transformed her entire face from wary suspicion to genuine happiness. And in that moment, he could see the child she might have been beforeloss and trauma and fear had taught her to guard herself so carefully.
They finished the bed in companionable silence, securing the last joints and testing the stability. It was solid work, strong enough to withstand anything a growing Cire infant could throw at it. The mesh sides would let Mikoz see out while keeping him safely contained, and the wide base would prevent tipping even when he learned to pull himself up.
“Not bad,” Anya said, surveying their work critically. “I mean, it’s not exactly pretty, but it’s functional.”
“Function matters more than aesthetics.”
“Says the guy wearing the same black uniform as everyone else on this ship.”
“It is practical.”
“It’s boring.”
He couldn’t argue with that. The Patrol had many virtues, but aesthetic diversity wasn’t among them.
Corinne joined them, Mikoz still cradled against her chest. She ran her hand over the crib’s frame admiring the joints they’d secured and exclaiming happily over the mesh panels.
“It’s perfect,” she said softly. “Thank you.”
“Anya did most of the design work,” he said. “I merely provided the labor.”
“That’s not true. You figured out the joint angles.” Anya ducked her head, suddenly shy. “We made a good team.”
Pride surged through him again, warm and unfamiliar. This child had tested him, challenged him, and then chosen to work with him. She had shared pieces of her grief and her history and had trusted him enough to be vulnerable. She had called them a team.
“We did,” he agreed.
Corinne laid Mikoz in the crib, arranging him carefully on the soft padding they’d installed. The infant stretched, making small satisfied noises, and promptly fell asleep with the boneless ease of the very young.
“He likes it,” Anya said, peering over the edge. “Look how content he is.”
“Safe,” Corinne corrected. “He feels safe.”
And that was the point, wasn’t it? To build something secure and stable and permanent enough that they could all feel safe. To create a space where Mikoz could grow, where Anya could heal, where Corinne could trust that tomorrow would come without bringing new disasters. To make a home.
Anya surprised him by stepping closer and wrapping her arms around his waist in a brief, fierce hug. She pulled back almost immediately, her face flushed with embarrassment.
“Thanks,” she mumbled. “For helping. And for… for talking about your daughter.”
His throat tightened. “You are welcome.”
“I should go. I promised Corinne I’d work on my math today.” She fled towards the main room, leaving him standing there with the ghost of her embrace still warming his chest.
Corinne moved to his side, her hand finding his. Her fingers were small and soft against his skin, but her grip was strong.
“That was good,” she said quietly. “What you did. Talking to her, building with her, treating her like a person instead of a child.”
“She is a person. A clever, brave, hurting person who deserves respect.”
