Page 272 of Destined For Her Alien Daddy

“That is accurate.”

“But this…” She gestures toward the ship, the team, the sunlight, the waiting ramp. “This is not emergency. This is us deciding what kind of life we want when we’re not actively on fire.”

I consider the truth of that.

She is right. The Wayward Thesis may carry danger, but not the desperate danger that forced confession from our throats with collapse at our backs. This launch is planned. Authorized. Witnessed. Chosen with clear eyes and signed forms.

Our relationship stands inside that choice too.

No longer an accident we survived.

A foundation we maintain.

“It feels stable,” I say.

She looks at me, surprised.

I continue, because the word matters. “Not safe from harm. Not free of uncertainty. Stable because we choose it again when no one is forcing us.”

Her eyes shine in the sunlight. “Yes. That.”

I lower my head and kiss her.

It is brief because the bay is full of personnel, and because if I kiss her the way I wish to, departure clearance may become complicated. Still, she leans into it, smiling against my mouth before I draw back. Someone near the ramp makes a soft delighted sound. Brakk groans loudly from inside the ship.

“I can hear affection happening, and I object to workplace morale!”

Anita calls back, “You embroidered Hazard King on your vest. You lost the right to complain about workplace morale.”

“I did not embroider it. I approved it.”

Sira says from the ramp, “You cried when you saw it.”

“I had solvent in my eye!”

Anita grins up at me. “We have a ridiculous crew.”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

She starts toward the ramp, still holding my hand.

I walk beside her.

The young researchers make room as we board. Some nod respectfully to Anita. Others try not to stare at me and fail because Vakutan security consultants do not become smaller through politeness. The ship interior smells of new sealant, fresh fabric, machine oil, and the faint spice of the karreth packets I stored in our quarters because Anita insisted expedition life required “morale tea” even though she still claims it tastes like felony wood.

The command deck is compact but well designed. Sira takes the linguistics station. Brakk settles into the engineering chair with a satisfied grunt and immediately begins rearranging the interface layout. Halvek’s oversight projection flickers to life near the rear console. The junior researchers strap in along the side benches, faces bright with the fear and wonder of beginnings.

Anita pauses at the threshold.

I know why.

She has stood at thresholds all her life. Fake shrine doors on her home colony. Academic doors closed by men who underestimated her. Hazard gates she ducked under because truth called louder than caution. Archive thresholds no living mind was meant to cross.

This one is different.

I stand beside her and wait.