Evan Cross woke up with a crick in his neck, a dead arm, and a small elf child drooling on his shoulder.
For a moment—one blissful, confused moment—he had no idea where he was or why there was a tiny monster pressed against his side. Then reality crashed back in with all the subtlety of a freight train.
Right. The mission. The "assignment." Fatherhood.
Oh God.
He'd fallen asleep on the couch sometime around midnight, after Anaya had finally stopped talking about her home—the Festival of Lights, the singing trees, the way moonlight tasted like silver on your tongue (whatever that meant to her)—and drifted off mid-sentence. She'd been sitting next to him, a careful foot of space between them, clutching that damn stuffed bear.
Now she was practically on top of him, her small body curled against his side like a cat seeking warmth. One of her hands was fisted in his shirt, the other still wrapped around the bear. Her pointed ears twitched occasionally in her sleep, and she made small sounds—not quite snores, more like fragile sighs.
Evan tried to move his dead arm. Anaya made a distressed sound and burrowed closer.
"Kid," he muttered. "You're cutting off my circulation."
She didn't wake up, just tightened her grip on his shirt. Her face, relaxed in sleep, looked impossibly young. How old had Morrison said she was? Five? She looked even younger than that, small and delicate in a way that made something uncomfortable arose in Evan's chest.
He'd killed creatures that looked like her. Older, yes, but the same pointed ears, the same inhuman eyes. He'd never thought twice about it.
Now he couldn't stop thinking about it.
The door opened with a soft click. Evan's hand went instinctively to his backside—where his gun usually was, except they'd made him leave it outside when he entered the room with Anaya. Morrison stepped in, carrying a tablet and wearing an expression that made Evan want to punch him.
"Well," Morrison said softly, his eyes traveling from Evan to the sleeping child. "Isn't this domestic."
"Shut up," Evan growled, careful to keep his voice low. "What do you want?"
Morrison held up the tablet. "Command watched the feeds from yesterday. They're very pleased with your progress. The way she's bonding with you—it's better than we could have hoped." He swiped at the screen. "They want you to keep it up. Establish a routine. Make her feel safe. We're bringing in a proper bed today, some more supplies. Make it feel like home."
"This isn't her home."
"No, but she needs to think it could be." Morrison's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Children adapt quickly, Cross. Give her a few days of comfort, of safety, of you playing the doting father, and she'll tell you everything we need to know."
Anaya stirred against Evan's side, making a small whimpering sound. Both men froze. Her eyes fluttered but didn't open. After a moment, she settled back into sleep.
Morrison leaned closer, his voice dropping even lower. "You're doing good work here, Cross. Important work. Every day you spend earning her trust is a day closer to ending this war." He paused. "Don't start developing a conscience now."
He left before Evan could respond.
Evan sat there, staring at the closed door, feeling the weight of Anaya against his side and the weight of Morrison's words pressing down on his chest. Don't start developing a conscience now.
Too late for that.
Anaya woke up slowly, blinking in confusion at her surroundings before her eyes found Evan's face. Her expression transformed into pure joy.
"Papa! You stayed!"
"Where else would I go?" Evan muttered, finally managing to extract his dead arm. Pins and needles shot through it immediately. He flexed his fingers, trying to get feeling back.
Anaya sat up, her hair an absolute disaster of tangles and leaves. "You could have left like last time. But you didn't!" She threw her arms around his neck, nearly headbutting him in the process. "You're really back. You're really really back."
Evan patted her back awkwardly, his arm still half-numb. "Yeah, kid. I'm really back."
She pulled away, studying his face with those too-large amber eyes. "You look tired, Papa. Did you not sleep well?"
"Couch isn't exactly comfortable."
"Oh." She looked down at the couch, then at him, guilt flickering across her small face. "Was I in your way? Mama always says I wiggle too much when I sleep. She says it's because I dream about running through the forests."
Before Evan could respond, there was a knock at the door. Two privates entered, carrying what appeared to be a disassembled bed frame, followed by another with a mattress. They worked quickly and efficiently, clearly uncomfortable under Anaya's wide-eyed stare.
"What's that?" she asked, watching them set up the bed with obvious fascination.
"It's a bed," Evan said. "For sleeping."
"But we were sleeping on the soft sitting thing."
"That's a couch. Beds are better."
Anaya watched the privates finish assembling the frame and place the mattress on top. They added sheets, pillows, even a blanket. When they left, she approached it cautiously, like it might bite her.
"It's very... tall," she said uncertainly.
"You've never seen a bed before?"
She shook her head, reaching out to touch the mattress with one finger. Then she pressed her whole hand into it, watching it indent under her palm. "It's soft. But not like moss."
"How do elves sleep?" Evan asked, genuinely curious despite himself.
Anaya's face lit up. "Oh! We sleep in nests! Mama and I make them together from soft grasses and moss and feathers from the birds. We line them with spider silk to make them extra comfortable, and we sleep curled up together where it's warm and cozy." Her smile faltered. "I miss our nest. I miss Mama."
And just like that, her eyes filled with tears.
Evan felt panic rise in his chest. "Hey, no, don't—"
"I want Mama," Anaya said, her voice breaking. "I want to go home. I want our nest and the singing trees and—and—" She was crying on peak now, tears streaming down her face. "I just wanted to find you, Papa. I just wanted to bring you home so we could all be together again. But now I'm here and Mama's there and I can't get back and—"
She was working herself into a full breakdown. Evan did the only thing he could think of—he picked her up. She immediately wrapped herself around him like a monkey, face buried in his shoulder, small body shaking with sobs.
"I know, kid," he said quietly, one hand awkwardly patting her back. "I know."
"Do you miss Mama too?" she asked between sobs. "Do you miss home?"
Evan's throat tightened. "Yeah. Yeah, I miss it."
It was a lie. It had to be a lie. But somehow, with Anaya crying against his shoulder, it felt easier to say than the truth.
She cried for a long time, until the front of his shirt was soaked and her sobs had faded to small hiccups. When she finally pulled back, her face was blotchy and her eyes were red-rimmed.
"Sorry, Papa," she said in a small voice. "Mama says I'm too emotional."
"It's okay to be sad, kid."
"Really?"
"Really."
She studied his face for a moment, then seemed to accept this. "Can I try the tall sleeping thing?"
"The bed? Yeah, go ahead."
Evan set her down. Anaya approached the bed again, this time with more confidence. She tried to climb onto it and immediately discovered a problem—it was too tall for her short legs. She jumped, her fingers barely grazing the mattress.
Despite everything, Evan felt his mouth twitch. "Need help?"
Anaya huffed, clearly frustrated. "I can do it!"
She jumped again. And again. On the third try, she got enough height to get her arms onto the mattress, but her legs dangled uselessly in the air. She kicked them, trying to get on the top, looking like a small, determined turtle flipped on its shell.
"Kid—"
"I can do it!" she insisted, still kicking.
Evan sighed and picked her up, depositing her on the bed. Anaya looked mildly offended by the assistance but was too distracted by the mattress to complain. She bounced experimentally.
"It moves!" she said with delight, bouncing again. "Papa, it moves!"
"Yeah, that's what mattresses do."
She flopped backward onto the bed, arms spread wide, staring up at the ceiling. "It's so soft. Different from moss, but still soft." She rolled onto her side, then her stomach, testing every position. "I like it. But..." She looked at him, suddenly uncertain. "It's big. We'll both fit, right?"
Evan blinked. "Both—what?"
"When we sleep. We'll both fit, right? I don't want to sleep alone." Her voice got smaller. "I never slept alone before. Mama was always there."
God. "Yeah, kid. We'll both fit."
Her smile returned, bright and trusting, and Evan felt that uncomfortable contraction in his chest again.
The rest of the morning passed in a strange sort of domesticity that Evan had never experienced before. Anaya explored every corner of the room, narrating her discoveries in a constant stream of chatter. The window ("Papa, why is the sky gray here? At home it's always blue or purple"), the bathroom ("What's this white chair thing?" followed by Evan's deeply uncomfortable explanation of human plumbing), the closet where they'd stored some basic supplies ("Papa, these clothes are so stiff! How do humans wear them?").
Through it all, she kept coming back to him—touching his hand, leaning against his leg, seeking constant reassurance that he was still there, still real, still hers.
And Evan, despite himself, found he didn't mind as much as he should have.