She disappears into the next room.
The crying dims.
I hover outside the door like a ghost, catching snatches of her voice—low, soothing, rhythmic. She hums something off-key. The kind of lullaby you only learn after too many sleepless nights and too many wet onesies.
Suddenly, a giggle.
Not hers.
High and bright.
I blink.
Seconds later, she opens the door with Dar on her hip. He’s small. Shockingly so. Big eyes, mop of dark curls. He’s in footie pajamas patterned with tiny rockets. A bottle hangs lazily from his lips, one hand gripping Nova’s hair like it’s the anchor keeping him in orbit.
“This is Dar,” she says, like she’s bracing for something.
I look at him.
He looks at me.
He studies me like a scientist studying a new element. Blinks once. Twice.
Then he reaches toward me.
Nova’s eyes widen.
“Guess he’s curious,” I say, stepping forward.
She doesn’t stop me.
Dar’s arms stretch further. I don’t even hesitate—I take him.
And he fits.
His body settles against mine like he’s done it before. Like I’ve done it before.
He grins—wide and gummy—and suddenly he’s bouncing in my arms, hand slapping against my chest.
“He likes you,” Nova says quietly.
I glance up.
She’s watching us like her world’s about to fall apart.
I hold Dar up, make a mock face, and he squeals—actually squeals—with laughter.
“That’s my pilot voice,” I tell him. “Used to scare engineers on inspection days.”
He giggles again, clapping.
Nova presses her lips together. Doesn’t speak.
But I see it.
In her eyes.
A mix of joy and terror. Pride and panic.
