I blink. “With what?”
“Anything.”
“You gonna babysit?”
He shrugs. “Wouldn’t be the worst thing.”
“You don’t know what diapers do to a person’s soul.”
“Try me.”
And just like that, the walls crumble a little more.
He doesn’t know the truth.
But he acts like he does.
He moves like someone who’s already chosen to stay.
And I can’t decide if that’s salvation or doom.
At home, I think of his laugh. His strength. The way he looks at my son like he’s made of stars and mischief.
The way my son looks back like Troka hung the damn moons.
“You have to accept him,” Jorla says the next morning, watching me burn a hole in my eggs with my eyes.
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know what itfeltlike when he did the first time.”
“People change.”
“Not aliens.”
Jorla arches her brow. “You mean the seven-foot warrior who folds paper animals for your kid and bought a used jungle gym off GalacticNet?”
I groan. “Shut up.”
“Just saying,” she grins. “He’s alreadybeingthe dad.”
And that’s the problem, isn’t it?
He’s everything I wanted him to be.
Now.
When I crawl into bed that night, I wrap my arms around my son and listen to his little breaths.
And I wonder if lies always sound this much like love when whispered too long.
Because I’m so close to accepting him.
CHAPTER 23
TROKA
