I step inside. He lies stretched, in glow-in-the-dark pajamas that make faint constellations across his arms. His chest rises and falls. He’s asleep. In that moment, he is everything fragile and precious in the world.
I lean down and kiss his forehead. Gentle, reverent. My lips brush down his cheek. He stirs—a flutter. But he doesn’t wake. His breath is soft, dreamlike. I press my hand on the back of his neck, feel the flush of warmth. I whisper, “I’m here, Kel. I’m your dad,” though he may not hear.
I stand, quiet, linger a second in the threshold, looking at him, trying to memorize him. Then I turn and walk back, closing the door softly behind me.
Back in the bedroom, Jaela is waiting—awake, turned toward me. She sits on the edge of the bed, shoulders squared, eyes luminous in moonlight. “You’re already a great dad,” she whispers. Her voice cracks with something — pride, relief, love.
I hesitate at the threshold. The quilt drapes between us. The air hums.
She motions me forward.
I cross the room, closet of soft pillows and memory behind me. Her hand reaches out, fingers trembling. I take her hand. She holds it as though she’s anchoring something she’s been afraid might vanish.
“Lead,” she says, voice low.
I nod. Relief coils through me. I close the door behind me, shutting the world out. The lock clicks.
In that small bedroom with curling posters and soft quilts, I take her free again—gently, slowly, with reverence. Her lips break into a smile I feel in my bones. The world falls away.
This time, she lets me guide. This time it’s ours — with whispering skin, tender tracing, slow cadence. She arches into me. I taste her, hear her, feel the warm weight of her. I press akiss to the top of her head, then lips, then down her neck. She hums — a soft sound, half moan, half comfort.
She pulls me closer. “Stay,” she whispers.
I press my lips to her shoulder. “I will.”
We lie entwined. She drifts — sleep returning — but I stay awake, feeling her breath rise and fall. Outside, wind stirs the trees. Inside, we are safe, whole, in the quiet frame of morning.
I wake with her in my arms, skin still damp, the quilt tangled beneath us, the soft residue of moonlight pooling across our bodies. The quiet hum of the house around us feels like testament—that we are alive, here, together.
She shifts beneath me, her breath soft. Her fingers lace into mine, tracing lines of warmth. I press a kiss to her forehead. She murmurs something I can’t quite catch, but the sound vibrates through me.
When we move again, it’s not just bodies—it’s weight, history, the jagged edges of our pasts bleeding into tenderness. I feel every nerve open. I feel her strength rising in the softness, battered but unbroken. I taste salt and sweat and want. She arches into me; the quilt cracks against our bodies, cotton against skin, heat and fabric and presence.
She whispers praises, soft honeyed words in my ear: “You are my strength. You saved me. You — you are home.” Her voice trembles. I respond with reverence, each kiss a promise, each touch an oath. My hands trace curves carved by war, by loss, by motherhood; I marvel at the landscape, the way she holds scars like trophies.
She moans, a raw sound full of relief and desire. I lean in, lips brushing her collarbone, her clavicle, soft sigh against skin. We move with need, yes, but more than that: with intention. Gratitude flows between us, thick and bright. Her hands on my back, pulling me closer; every dead space between us filled with devotion.
When it’s over, we don’t part. I stay inside her, weight pressing, chest rising and falling. The post-storm quiet of the bed holds us. My arms wrap around her, tether. Her skin glows in the low lamp light, sweat and tears mingling. I feel her heartbeat under my ear, steady and living.
She turns her face up to me, eyes glistening. “I want to be yours in every world,” I whisper, voice trembling. “Even the ones we never reach.”
Tears slip down her cheeks. She presses a kiss to my lips. “Then stay in this one.”
I nod, solemn. “Forever.”
She melts into me. We lie like that, tangled, the world outside muted. In her eyes, I see the whole future. And I vow: I am hers. Always.
CHAPTER 30
JAELA
The dawn comes soft over the Sundown Ocean, silver waves breathing light across our windows. The sea mist drips through the glass vents, carrying salt and foam and promise. I stand on the veranda of our home, watching Kel trace arcs across the garden on his tiny hover scooter, wind tugging at his curls. The hum of its engines is a bright little laugh.
Our home is a patchwork of renegade tech and gentle salvaged grace: a hull plate from a Vakutan cruiser forms one wall, a rain-glass dome arches overhead, Earth vines and alien orchids trail along the seams. The scent of sea, garden soil, and spice hangs in the air.
Behind me, Kyldak’s growl of mock complaint drifts out of the kitchen. I smile, turning, and step inside. The kitchen glows with soft lamplight and warm steam. A breakfast drone hovers, mechanical arms adjusting bowls and pouring spiced oat-milk. I’m at the console, fingers flying across voice prompts and wire circuits.
“Drone, adjust temperature to ninety-two and increase protein infusion by twenty percent,” I murmur. The drone obeys, humming.
