Rough.
Cramped.
Loud in weird places.
But home.
The air doesn't taste like fear every time I breathe. It tastes like freedom.
I wipe down the makeshift table in the galley while Aria sings a made-up song, twirling her little fingers through the air like she's painting something nobody else can see.
Joren’s on the floor, stacking old supply crates like they’re building blocks.
Traz leans against the counter, arms crossed, watching them with that soft, guarded look he only gets when he thinks no one's paying attention.
I catch it.
Every damn time.
He isn’t slick.
"You’re gonna have to do something ‘bout that hair, wild man," I say, smirking as I toss a rag at him.
He snatches it outta the air without blinking.
"Maybe I like it this way," he rumbles.
"Like you’re auditioning for some backwater band?"
He grunts, low and almost a laugh.
Almost.
"You offering to fix it?" he asks.
I arch a brow.
"Depends. You trust me with scissors?"
He huffs a breath, the corner of his mouth twitching.
"I trust you with my life," he says, dead serious.
The air goes still for a second.
Heavy.
Sweet.
Real.
Aria drops a crate with a crash and giggles herself silly.
Joren scowls at her, then at the mess, arms crossed just like his daddy.
I swear, the boy’s a pint-sized Traz when he gets mad.
Traz pushes off the counter and crouches down next to them, ruffling Joren’s hair until he squawks in protest.
