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CHAPTER SIXTEEN

T hraxar woke before the ship’s artificial dawn cycle began.

He’d slept poorly, his mind replaying the previous night in vivid detail—Kara’s soft skin under his hands, the sounds she’d made, the trust in her eyes.

His body stirred at the memory, and he forced himself to focus on the environmental readouts instead.

He’d crossed a line. Indulged in something he had no right to pursue. The weight of responsibility settled heavily on his shoulders as he ran through the morning systems check. By the time the lights gradually brightened to simulate sunrise, he’d composed himself and his apology.

The soft padding of feet announced Kara’s arrival before she appeared in the cockpit doorway. Her hair was loose around her shoulders, and despite his resolution, Thraxar couldn’t help noticing how it caught the light.

“Morning,” she said, her voice carrying a warmth that made his resolve waver.

“Good morning.” He swiveled his chair to face her, noting the shadows under her eyes and the slight stiffness in her movements. Guilt tightened his chest. “Kara, about last night—I must apologize for my behavior. It was inappropriate and?—”

“What?” She looked genuinely confused for a moment before understanding dawned. “Oh! No, that’s not—” A flush colored her cheeks. “I don’t regret anything that happened between us.”

He blinked, thrown off his carefully prepared speech. “Then why do you look so tired?”

She laughed softly. “Try sharing a narrow bunk with two children. Rory kicks in his sleep, and Talia somehow manages to take up more space than should be physically possible.”

Relief and something warmer flooded through him. “You should have said something. I could have arranged alternative sleeping arrangements.”

“It was late, and they were already settled.” She shrugged. “I’ve managed with worse.”

He frowned, not liking the reminder of what she’d endured.

“You can use my cabin. I’ll sleep here.” When her expression shifted to something he couldn’t read, he added, “The cockpit seat reclines fully. It’s quite comfortable.”

“I wasn’t—” She stopped and shook her head with a small smile. “Thank you.”

The children’s voices drifted up from below, saving him from having to decipher her tone. She glanced over her shoulder.

“I should check on them. Talia was having some trouble with the sanitation unit last night.”

“Wait.” He hesitated. “We need to discuss what to do about her.”

Her expression immediately softened. “I know. She told me a little last night. Her mother is dead—has been for some time. Apparently her mother told her that her father died before she was born.”

“Does she know where she’s from? Any family?”

“She said they moved around a lot. I don’t think she has anyone else.”

The unspoken question hung between them: what happens to her now?

He considered their options, tail swishing thoughtfully. “I have a contact—Elrin. He’s a scholar, but he’s also connected to various refugee networks. He might know of her species, perhaps even her people.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

He met her gaze steadily. “Then we’ll figure something out. I won’t abandon her to another Wren Dox.”

Relief softened her features. “How far is it to where your friend lives?”

“Two, perhaps three days’ journey.” He hesitated. “I’m sorry for the additional delay in reaching the Patrol station.”

“I don’t mind,” she said softly, and something in her tone made his heart beat faster.

Before he could respond, Rory appeared behind her, tugging at her shirt, and she turned to him with a smile. “Yes, breakfast time. Let’s go see what we can find.”

As they disappeared down the corridor, he sat motionless for several moments. Then he shook himself and began plotting a new course to Verdun. The familiar task grounded him, pushing aside the confusing tangle of emotions that threatened to overwhelm his usual discipline.

By the time he finished and made his way to the galley, she had managed to scrounge up some nutrition bars for herself and the children.

“Those are emergency rations,” he said, frowning. “Let me prepare something more substantial.”

He moved to the food preparation unit, keenly aware of their eyes on him as he assembled ingredients.

The domesticity of the moment struck him with unexpected force—preparing a meal for Kara and the children, as if they were his family.

The thought should have triggered the familiar guilt and pain, but somehow, after sharing his past with Kara, the ache had dulled.

“Can I help?”

The small voice startled him. Talia stood at his side, her translucent ears shifting from lavender to a hopeful blue-green.

He glanced at Kara, who nodded encouragingly.

“Of course,” he said, surprised at how easily the words came. “Here, you can mix these together.”

He showed her how to operate the mixing unit, adjusting the controls to accommodate her smaller hands. Talia’s ears flushed with pleasure as she concentrated on her task, the tip of her tongue peeking out between her lips.

“Like this?” she asked, looking up at him with those big black eyes.

“Perfect,” he assured her, something warm unfurling in his chest.

As they worked together, he found himself telling her about the ingredients—which planets they came from, how they tasted, which ones were his favorites. She absorbed every word, asking questions that revealed a quick intelligence beneath her initial shyness.

“My mother used to make something that smelled like this,” she said suddenly as he added spices to the protein base. “But different, too.”

“Food memories are powerful,” he said, thinking of his own mother’s cooking. “They connect us to our past.”

She nodded solemnly. “I miss her cooking. I miss her.”

The simple statement, delivered without tears but with profound sadness, touched something deep within him. He rested a gentle hand on her shoulder as his tail wrapped around her small back.

“I know,” he said softly. “I miss my family too.”

She leaned briefly against his side, a gesture of shared comfort that nearly undid him. Then she straightened, returning to her mixing with renewed determination.

Across the galley, Rory had arranged his nutrition bar into precise geometric patterns before eating each section. Kara watched them both, something unreadable in her expression.

When the meal was ready, they gathered around the small table. Talia proudly explained her contribution to each dish, and even Rory tried a few bites of the unfamiliar food before returning to his preferred nutrition bar.

“This is delicious,” Kara said, and the genuine pleasure in her voice filled him with ridiculous satisfaction.

“Talia deserves most of the credit,” he replied, watching as the child’s ears flushed a deep, pleased purple.

The conversation flowed easily as they ate, punctuated by Rory’s occasional humming and Talia’s increasingly confident questions. He found himself relaxing, his usual vigilance softening in the warmth of their company.

This was what his childhood had been like, he realized.

Meals shared in the ship’s galley, his parents’ quiet conversation, his brother’s endless questions.

The memory brought a pang, but not the crippling grief he’d grown accustomed to.

Instead, he found himself grateful for those memories—and for this unexpected echo of them.

After they finished eating, he showed Talia how to operate the cleaning unit while Kara helped Rory with his morning routine. The ship hummed around them, steady and secure, as they settled into a rhythm that felt startlingly natural.

Later, when the children were occupied with learning games in the lounge, he found Kara in the corridor, watching them through the open doorway.

“Talia’s picking up the language modules quickly,” she observed. “And Rory seems comfortable with her.”

“They’ve bonded,” he agreed. “It’s remarkable, given what they’ve both been through.”

“Children are remarkably resilient.” Her voice carried the weight of experience. “More than we give them credit for.”

He studied her profile, noting the strength in her jaw, the determined set of her shoulders. “Like their mother.”

She glanced up at him, surprise softening to something warmer. “I’ve had to be.”

“You shouldn’t have had to face it alone.” The words escaped before he could consider them.

“Neither should you,” she countered softly.

The understanding in her eyes threatened to undo him. He looked away, focusing on the children instead. “What will you do when we reach the Patrol station?”

She was silent for a long moment. “I don’t know,” she finally admitted. “I had this idea that they’d help us get home, but home doesn’t really exist anymore. Not for us.”

“And Talia?”

“I won’t abandon her.” The fierce certainty in her voice matched the protective instinct that had been growing in his own chest. “Whatever happens, she comes with us.”

Us. The simple pronoun hung between them, laden with implications neither of them had voiced.

“Elrin might be able to help with more than just identifying her species,” he said carefully. “He has connections throughout this sector. If you wanted to settle somewhere…”

“Without you?” Her directness caught him off guard, and his tail automatically reached for her.

“I assumed you would want to establish yourselves somewhere stable. Safe.”

“And you wouldn’t be part of that picture?”

He forced himself to meet her gaze. “I didn’t presume to include myself in your plans.”

“Maybe you should.” Her hand found his, warm and small against his palm. “Maybe you should start presuming more, Thraxar.”

Before he could respond, Talia called out, excited about something she’d discovered in the learning module. Kara squeezed his hand once, then moved to join the children, leaving him standing in the corridor, his mind racing with possibilities he’d never allowed himself to consider.

His ship felt different now—warmer, fuller, alive in a way it hadn’t been in years. The sounds of Kara explaining something to Talia, Rory’s soft humming, the occasional burst of laughter—they filled spaces that had been empty for too long.

Family. The word he’d been avoiding floated to the surface of his thoughts. This is what family feels like.

For the first time since losing his parents and brother, the thought didn’t bring crippling guilt. Instead, he felt something tentative unfurling in his chest—not replacing what he’d lost, but growing alongside those memories. New possibilities. New connections.

New hope.