The apartment smelled of warm milk and faint lavender from the diffuser Chris had insisted on buying—something Earth humans used to calm nerves, though your Tamaranean senses found it oddly floral, like crushed star-petals back on Tamaran but softer, less alive.

You sat cross-legged on the rug, back against the couch, cradling the tiny bundle against your chest. The baby—their daughter—had your copper skin but Chris's dark hair, already a stubborn tuft that refused to lie flat. Her eyes, when open, were the startling green of deep forest pools, a color neither of you could quite explain. She nursed quietly now, small fist curled against your collarbone, and every pull sent a warm, grounding ache through you; alien physiology meeting human need in ways the midwives on Tamaran had never prepared you for.

Chris knelt in front of you, one hand braced on your knee, the other holding a bottle of water he'd fetched without being asked. He wore the same faded gray tee from yesterday, sleeves pushed up, forearms corded from years of holding weapons that now seemed absurdly large compared to the fragile life between you. His helmet sat on the coffee table like a relic from another lifetime, gathering dust beside a pile of parenting books Leota had dropped off last week.

"You good, babe?" His voice was low, the way it always got when he was trying not to sound worried. "She's been at it for, like, twenty minutes. You need me to burp her or... shit, I don't know, sing her that weird Tamaranean lullaby again?"