I don’t think Traz does either.
He sits against the far wall, legs stretched out in front of him, Aria tucked into one side, Joren draped half across his chest like a little barnacle.
I watch them from my place across the room, knees drawn to my chest, arms locked around them like I can keep the world at bay if I just squeeze tight enough.
It’s stupid.
Petty.
But part of me doesn’t know how to crawl over there and fit myself into that picture.
Not after everything.
So I stay where I am.
Silent.
Watching.
Waiting.
Traz stirs first.
He shifts, careful not to wake the kids.
His eyes find me across the room.
He doesn't say anything.
Doesn't have to.
That look—raw, steady, stubborn—says it all.
I’m here.
I’m not leaving.
Not this time.
The tension between us stretches taut, tight as wire, but since he kicked open that door, it doesn’t feel like it’s choking me.
Feels like maybe, just maybe, we’re learning how to breathe the same broken air again.
Later, after a breakfast of stale ration biscuits and weak tea, the kids tug him outside.
Out into the wreck yard, where scraps of metal and twisted junk form a crooked playground.
I follow, leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, watching them.
Aria’s already dragging him toward a half-crushed transport shell, waving her hands, talking a mile a minute.
"That’s my ship," she declares, pointing proudly. "We’re gonna fix it up and fly away someday!"
Traz raises an eyebrow at the battered heap.
"That so?" he says, voice rough but warm.
"Yup," she says, puffing her little chest out. "Joren’s my engineer. I’m the captain."
