“Protein, carbohydrates, essential vitamins and minerals, and enough preservatives to survive a nuclear winter.” Corinne took a bite of her own meal. “Also, some paprika and dehydrated onions. Eat it or go hungry, kiddo.”
“I wasn’t complaining. Just curious.” Anya ate with the enthusiasm of a teenager who could apparently consume her weight in food daily and still claim starvation.
They fell into easy conversation, discussing the plan for Tillich Two. Corinne planned to explore the local markets to find freshfood and proper clothing. Anya asked about schools and whether there would be other children her age. He explained what he knew of the colony’s layout, the mixed population of Tillichi and various alien species, and the fact that the economy was based primarily on fishing and trade.
“Fishing?” Corinne looked intrigued. “I didn’t know you had experience with that.”
“My grandfather was a fisherman on Ciresia, before the Red Death.” He remembered standing on the dock beside the old male when he was still very young, learning to cast nets and read the water. “He taught me the basics, though I never pursued it professionally.”
“Is that what you’ll do? On Tillich Two?”
He hadn’t considered it until this moment, but the idea felt right. A simple life away from military structure and political intrigue. Honest work that provided for his family without drawing unwanted attention.
“Perhaps. If there is demand for another fishing operation.”
“I think it’s perfect.” She reached across the makeshift table to squeeze his hand. “Professor turned teacher, warrior turned fisherman, traumatized survivors turned family. We’ll fit right in.”
Anya snorted. “Yeah, we’re super normal. Nothing weird about us at all.”
After the meal, he cleared the table while Corinne settled Mikoz down for the night. The infant fought sleep as usual, his chirps escalating to full cries before finally subsiding into exhausted whimpers.
“He’s getting stubborn about bedtime,” she said, rubbing her eyes. “Any suggestions?”
“Consistency and patience. Eventually he will learn that bedtime is not negotiable.” He remembered using the same approach with his daughter, though the memories were bittersweet. “And perhaps some physical activity during the day to tire him out.”
“Physical activity. In a flyer barely big enough to turn around in.”
“We will manage.”
And they did. Over the next few days, they established a routine that made the cramped quarters feel almost comfortable. Mornings began with Corinne teaching Anya mathematics and literature while he monitored their route and checked for pursuing vessels. Midday meant physical training—he taught Anya self-defense techniques adapted for the limited space while Corinne supervised Mikoz’s increasingly adventurous walks.
The infant had progressed from three steps to six, then eight. He pulled himself upright using anything available—cargo netting, seat legs, Selik’s tail when it was within reach—and toddled forward with single-minded determination.
“He’s going to hurt himself,” she fretted as Mikoz took a tumble for the third time in as many minutes.
“He is fine. Cire children are resilient.” He watched as the infant pushed himself back up, undeterred by the fall. “The bumps and bruises teach him his limitations.”
“Easy for you to say. Your skin is a lot thicker than his.”
“His will be the same, once he matures.” He caught Mikoz before the infant could topple into the cargo netting. “Though I concede that perhaps we should pad the sharper corners.”
Afternoons were Selik’s favorite time. While Mikoz napped and Anya curled in her seat with a book, he and Corinne had precious moments alone. Sometimes they talked, sharing stories of their pasts and dreams for their future. Sometimes they sat in comfortable silence, simply enjoying each other’s presence.
And sometimes, when the children were deeply asleep and the flyer’s autopilot was handling navigation, they came together with the desperate passion of new lovers who couldn’t keep their hands off each other.
The storage area was barely large enough for them both, but they made it work. He learned the geography of her body—the sensitive spot behind her ear, the way she gasped when he kissed her throat, the soft sounds she made when he was inside her. And she learned him just as thoroughly, discovering that the base of his tail was particularly sensitive, that he loved when she traced the patterns on his skin, and that whispering his name made him growl with possessive pleasure.
He’d press her against the wall, her legs wrapped around his waist as he drove into her, their coupling fast and fierce and utterly necessary. Or she would ride him on the narrow bench seat, her head thrown back as she moved above him, her hands braced against the ceiling for balance. The cramped quarters forced intimacy, leaving no space between them for anything but skin on skin, breath on breath.
Every joining felt like the first and the last simultaneously—a desperate claiming and a heartfelt surrender. The knot formed without fail each time, locking them together for long minutes afterward. He’d hold her then, stroking her hair as she drifted in the afterglow, memorizing the way she looked with her guard down and her heart open to him completely.
“My mate,” he’d whisper against her temple, and she’d answer, “Always,” her drowsy trust making his chest ache with fierce protectiveness.
“We’re going to scandalize Anya if we keep this up,” she said one afternoon, breathless and flushed in the aftermath of their coupling.
“She is thirteen and knows exactly what we are doing.” He nuzzled her neck, enjoying her scent. “She told me yesterday that we were ‘disgustingly cute together’ and asked if we could please keep the ‘gross stuff’ to when she was asleep.”
She laughed. “She said that?”
