Digital Shadow
A few days after Helix Station, their home on Empress Teta had settled back into the kind of calm that felt earned, the kind that arrived slowly after chaos rather than rushing in all at once. Rain drifted across the wide windows in soft, slanting lines, turning the city lights beyond into blurred ribbons of gold and white. Inside, the house was warm with lamplight, clean counters, and the lingering scent of dinner.
Aren had cooked, though EL had insisted on helping from the moment ingredients appeared. The droid's balance was graceful, her voice pleasantly expressive, and her confidence in every domestic task was absolute, whether justified or not. She had chopped vegetables with theatrical precision, corrected Aren twice, complimented Omen once, and attempted to season three dishes simultaneously. Eventually, Aren had pointed toward the doorway and informed her, with affectionate firmness, that she was no longer needed in the kitchen for the next half hour. EL had placed one hand dramatically over her chassis, declared herself unappreciated, and exited with the wounded dignity of a stage performer denied her spotlight.
Now the house held only the quiet sounds of rain, utensils against plates, and the soft mechanical hum of a home that had been lived in long enough to feel steady again.
Aren sat beside Omen at the kitchen table instead of across from him, angled slightly toward his side so their knees now brushed beneath the wood. She wore a soft, dark shirt and comfortable lounge pants, clothes chosen entirely for ease. Her purple hair hung loose over one shoulder, a few strands falling forward in a way she absently ignored.
In the pocket of those pants, the ring box rested close against her thigh. She had kept it there since he gave it to her. Not forgotten. Not avoided. Simply held close until she could answer the way she wanted to.
For a while, she said nothing, content to eat beside him and let the quiet settle around them, the kind of quiet that only existed when there was nowhere urgent to be and no one demanding their attention.
Eventually, she set her fork down and turned slightly toward him, one hand coming to rest over his forearm. Her touch was gentle, steady, familiar.
"I missed this," she said softly.
The words carried far more than dinner. They meant home, safety, the simple comfort of him beside her without smoke or blaster fire between them. Her fingers traced once along his sleeve before settling again.
"You are much easier to love when you are not provoking armed criminals," she added, warmth threading through the dry humor. A faint smile touched her mouth. "Though apparently I have become flexible."
She studied him in the gentle kitchen light, her expression open in a way she rarely allowed when life was moving too fast. The affection there was quiet but unmistakable.
"I know what I'm like when I'm working," she said, her voice lowering into something honest and unguarded. "I narrow down to the problem in front of me until everything else blurs at the edges. I know that can make me seem far away."
Her thumb brushed slowly across his arm, a small, grounding motion.
"But far away is not the same thing as uncaring. If I miss something in the moment, it usually means I'm trying to keep everyone standing long enough to come back and feel it properly afterward."
Her hand slipped from his arm to her pocket. For a moment, her fingers rested over the box, feeling its familiar shape, before she drew it out and set it gently on the table between them. The motion was careful, almost tender.
"I've kept this with me since you gave it to me," she said, her tone warm with something deeper than amusement. "You chose to hand it to me while I was dismantling a trafficking network. That level of confidence is either charming or deeply irrational."
She shifted closer, not dramatically, just enough that her shoulder brushed his, her presence settling against him with quiet certainty. Her forehead rested lightly against his temple, a soft, lingering contact that carried more meaning than any kiss could have.
"I never said no," she murmured.
Her hand found his beneath the table, fingers intertwining with his in a slow, deliberate motion.
"I was waiting to say yes at home," she said, her voice warm and steady, "where I could look at you properly when I did."
Sergeant Omen
Aren had cooked, though EL had insisted on helping from the moment ingredients appeared. The droid's balance was graceful, her voice pleasantly expressive, and her confidence in every domestic task was absolute, whether justified or not. She had chopped vegetables with theatrical precision, corrected Aren twice, complimented Omen once, and attempted to season three dishes simultaneously. Eventually, Aren had pointed toward the doorway and informed her, with affectionate firmness, that she was no longer needed in the kitchen for the next half hour. EL had placed one hand dramatically over her chassis, declared herself unappreciated, and exited with the wounded dignity of a stage performer denied her spotlight.
Now the house held only the quiet sounds of rain, utensils against plates, and the soft mechanical hum of a home that had been lived in long enough to feel steady again.
Aren sat beside Omen at the kitchen table instead of across from him, angled slightly toward his side so their knees now brushed beneath the wood. She wore a soft, dark shirt and comfortable lounge pants, clothes chosen entirely for ease. Her purple hair hung loose over one shoulder, a few strands falling forward in a way she absently ignored.
In the pocket of those pants, the ring box rested close against her thigh. She had kept it there since he gave it to her. Not forgotten. Not avoided. Simply held close until she could answer the way she wanted to.
For a while, she said nothing, content to eat beside him and let the quiet settle around them, the kind of quiet that only existed when there was nowhere urgent to be and no one demanding their attention.
Eventually, she set her fork down and turned slightly toward him, one hand coming to rest over his forearm. Her touch was gentle, steady, familiar.
"I missed this," she said softly.
The words carried far more than dinner. They meant home, safety, the simple comfort of him beside her without smoke or blaster fire between them. Her fingers traced once along his sleeve before settling again.
"You are much easier to love when you are not provoking armed criminals," she added, warmth threading through the dry humor. A faint smile touched her mouth. "Though apparently I have become flexible."
She studied him in the gentle kitchen light, her expression open in a way she rarely allowed when life was moving too fast. The affection there was quiet but unmistakable.
"I know what I'm like when I'm working," she said, her voice lowering into something honest and unguarded. "I narrow down to the problem in front of me until everything else blurs at the edges. I know that can make me seem far away."
Her thumb brushed slowly across his arm, a small, grounding motion.
"But far away is not the same thing as uncaring. If I miss something in the moment, it usually means I'm trying to keep everyone standing long enough to come back and feel it properly afterward."
Her hand slipped from his arm to her pocket. For a moment, her fingers rested over the box, feeling its familiar shape, before she drew it out and set it gently on the table between them. The motion was careful, almost tender.
"I've kept this with me since you gave it to me," she said, her tone warm with something deeper than amusement. "You chose to hand it to me while I was dismantling a trafficking network. That level of confidence is either charming or deeply irrational."
She shifted closer, not dramatically, just enough that her shoulder brushed his, her presence settling against him with quiet certainty. Her forehead rested lightly against his temple, a soft, lingering contact that carried more meaning than any kiss could have.
"I never said no," she murmured.
Her hand found his beneath the table, fingers intertwining with his in a slow, deliberate motion.
"I was waiting to say yes at home," she said, her voice warm and steady, "where I could look at you properly when I did."
Sergeant Omen
