Kade returned to the ship with the kind of quiet, unsettled good mood that made him suspicious of himself.

  It clung to him as they crossed the dock lanes back toward Tōkaidō’s sector—past the Shoals patrols, past the security gates, past the harbor lights that painted silver lines on black water. The night air was cool enough to make the formal uniform feel less like a cage, and the wind carried salt and engine smoke and distant music fading behind them like the ball was already becoming a half-remembered dream.

  Tōkaidō walked beside him, posture still formal, Kyoto attire still pristine, but her shoulders had loosened a fraction. Not the kind of looseness that came from exhaustion.

  The kind that came from having survived something and realizing you were still yourself on the other side.

  Kade noticed it.

  Kade filed it away as “morale improved.”

  Kade did not connect it to the dance.

  Dense dumbass behavior, consistent.

  They reached the ramp.

  The guards on duty straightened.

  A Shoals marine at the checkpoint recognized Kade and gave a crisp nod, expression curious but respectful.

  “Evening, Commander.”

  Kade nodded back.

  “Evening.”

  Tōkaidō’s ears flicked once in acknowledgement, and the guard’s eyes slid to her for half a second before snapping away again, like looking too long was impolite.

  Kade caught that.

  The anger in him stirred—but it was quieter now, tempered by something else.

  Satisfaction, maybe.

  He couldn’t put his finger on it.

  He climbed the ramp, boots thudding softly on the ship’s plating.

  Tōkaidō followed.

  For a moment, it looked like they might simply return to the captain’s quarters—rest, sleep, wake early, leave Shoals behind.

  Then a door opened down the corridor.

  Senko Maru appeared like a fox-shaped domestic hurricane.

  She was still in neat, practical attire, hair tied back, tail flicking with nervous energy, and her eyes widened the moment she saw Kade and Tōkaidō.

  “Commander!” she squeaked.

  Kade blinked.

  Then, before he could speak—

  Senko bowed, very fast.

  “Welcome back!” she said. “Um—dinner is ready. I— I… I have prepared a meal. For everyone. On my ship.”

  Kade stared at her.

  Tōkaidō’s ears perked faintly, amused.

  Kade’s brain tried to produce a response that didn’t sound like he was being ambushed by kindness.

  “Senko,” he said carefully.

  “Yes!”

  “Why,” he asked, “are you feeding the entire convoy again.”

  Senko’s cheeks turned pink.

  “Because…” she said, and her voice dropped into shy seriousness. “Because you all worked hard today. And because… I like being useful.”

  Her ears angled back slightly as if she expected someone to tell her that wasn’t allowed.

  Kade felt that familiar little flare in his chest.

  That reflexive protectiveness toward people who offered their value like they were asking permission to exist.

  He exhaled.

  “Okay,” he said.

  Senko’s eyes brightened so fast it was almost comedic.

  “Okay?”

  “Okay,” Kade repeated. “We’ll come eat.”

  Senko made a sound that was half relief and half joy.

  “Yay—! Um, I mean— yes. Thank you, Commander.”

  Then she hesitated, glanced at Tōkaidō, and bowed again.

  “Tōkaidō-san, I prepared tea as well. The good kind. I… I borrowed leaves from Shoals’ supply liaison.”

  Tōkaidō blinked.

  “You borrowed,” she repeated softly.

  Senko’s tail drooped slightly.

  “…With permission,” she added quickly. “I promise.”

  Tōkaidō’s lips twitched.

  “Good,” she said gently. “Thank you.”

  Senko practically vibrated with pride.

  Then she turned and began leading them down the corridor like a guide escorting VIPs to a sacred ritual.

  Kade followed, resigned.

  Tōkaidō followed too, expression soft in a way Kade didn’t fully register.

  Kade’s good mood lingered.

  He couldn’t name it.

  But it didn’t leave.

  Senko’s shipform was smaller than Tōkaidō’s—auxiliary supply and support, built for function rather than intimidation. The corridors were narrower, the lights warmer, the air carrying the comforting smell of food and rice and miso and something grilled.

  When Kade stepped inside, the first thing he noticed was the sound.

  Not Shoals’ hum.

  Not the ball’s controlled music.

  But voices.

  Laughter.

  The kind of chaotic, slightly too loud noise that came from people who’d been holding tension in their bodies all day and finally let it spill out in the safest way they knew how.

  Kade paused in the entry corridor.

  Then realized—this was his convoy.

  His people.

  Acting like they were allowed to be alive.

  Senko ushered him forward quickly, as if afraid he might change his mind.

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  The galley space had been rearranged into something resembling a communal mess. Tables pulled close together. Bench seating improvised. Plates and bowls laid out with careful order.

  And there they all were.

  Hensley and his gaggle of misfits, sprawled with the comfortable arrogance of marines who had successfully acquired a priceless artifact.

  Fairplay leaned back in her seat like she owned the air, hood down, eyes bright with mischief. Her whiskey was conspicuously absent—likely because Kade’s earlier “no” had been relayed down the chain like a divine commandment. She looked like she was coping with that injustice by being extra dramatic.

  Wilkinson sat slightly apart, calm and quiet, with Reeves beside him. Reeves had a small hair tie on her wrist now—subtle, almost invisible—but the way her fingers touched it occasionally suggested it mattered.

  Salmon was there too.

  Of course she was.

  Still wearing the hat.

  Still wearing it like she’d earned it in combat.

  She had her feet on a chair that was not meant for feet, and she was holding a spoon like a weapon.

  And Wisconsin—

  Wisconsin was also there.

  That was the part that made Kade stop for half a second.

  The Iowa-class sat at the far end of the table, posture stiff, shoulders squared, looking like a man who had never once in his life expected to be trapped at a dinner table with a hat-wearing submarine gremlin and a marine squad treating him like he was just another guy.

  He looked like he’d rather be facing Abyssals.

  Which meant he was probably extremely uncomfortable.

  Salmon saw Kade first.

  She lifted her spoon like a salute.

  “COMMANDER!” she announced far too loudly.

  Hensley winced.

  Morales muttered, “Inside voice.”

  Salmon ignored him.

  Kade’s eyes narrowed.

  “You’re still wearing the hat,” he said.

  Salmon nodded solemnly.

  “Yes.”

  Kade’s stare intensified.

  Salmon added, “It improves my tactical acuity.”

  Kade exhaled.

  “Put your feet down.”

  Salmon looked offended.

  “…No.”

  Kade’s gaze sharpened.

  Salmon slowly, reluctantly, put her feet down like she was making a great sacrifice.

  Hensley cleared his throat.

  “Sir,” he said, and his mouth twitched faintly, “mission update.”

  Kade glanced at him.

  Hensley gestured toward the side of the galley.

  There, propped carefully against a wall like sacred cargo, was a boxed game console.

  Clean.

  Refurbished.

  Intact.

  With an arcade prize label still attached.

  Kade went still.

  Then stared harder.

  Then spoke in the careful voice of someone afraid he was hallucinating.

  “…You won.”

  Morales sat up straighter.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Finch beamed.

  “Morale investment paid dividends.”

  Fairplay smiled sweetly.

  “It was inevitable,” she said.

  Kade stared at them all like they were a pack of feral raccoons that had somehow dragged home a working refrigerator.

  “How,” he asked slowly, “did you win that.”

  Hensley’s expression was professional.

  “Superior discipline,” he said.

  Salmon, without hesitation, said, “Violence.”

  Hensley’s jaw tightened.

  “We did not use violence.”

  Salmon tilted her head.

  “We used psychological warfare.”

  Hensley exhaled.

  “…Yes.”

  Kade closed his eyes briefly.

  Then opened them.

  The good mood in him shifted into something warmer.

  He didn’t show it fully.

  But his voice softened by a fraction.

  “…Good work,” he said.

  The table went still for half a second.

  Then Finch grinned like he’d been given a medal.

  Morales looked pleased.

  Reeves’ eyes widened slightly, as if she hadn’t expected praise to be handed out casually.

  Fairplay looked smug.

  Salmon looked triumphantly vindicated.

  Hensley nodded once, like that was all he needed.

  Then, because they could never let a moment remain pure, Salmon leaned toward Wisconsin with her hat brim tilting dramatically.

  “So,” Salmon said, “you’re coming to Horizon.”

  Wisconsin’s glare sharpened.

  “I said I wanted to transfer.”

  Salmon nodded.

  “That’s the same thing.”

  Wisconsin’s jaw flexed.

  “It’s not approved yet.”

  Morales grinned.

  “It will be.”

  Finch leaned in.

  “Commander’s scary in polite rooms.”

  Wisconsin’s eyes flicked to Kade.

  Kade’s expression was neutral.

  But there was something in it that suggested yes, I am.

  Wisconsin’s mouth twitched faintly.

  Not quite a smile.

  Then Salmon said, with the blunt cheer of someone who feared nothing but boredom:

  “You should come with us when we leave in the morning.”

  Wisconsin stared.

  “…Why.”

  Hensley answered like it was obvious.

  “Because if you want to go to Horizon,” he said, “you might as well see it with your own eyes.”

  Wisconsin’s glare deepened.

  “I’ve seen worse bases.”

  Fairplay leaned in, southern accent dripping.

  “Honey,” she said, “you haven’t seen Horizon.”

  Wisconsin’s eyes narrowed.

  “I can read reports.”

  Salmon scoffed.

  “You can’t smell reports.”

  Wisconsin blinked.

  “…What.”

  Salmon gestured with her spoon dramatically.

  “Horizon has a unique scent profile,” she said. “Damp concrete, broken dreams, and—”

  Kade cut in, flat.

  “Stop.”

  Salmon paused.

  “…Yes, Commander.”

  Kade’s eyes moved to Wisconsin.

  “You’re not coming with us tomorrow,” Kade said.

  Wisconsin’s gaze sharpened.

  “Why not.”

  Kade’s voice stayed calm.

  “Because you’re under Shoals orders,” he said. “And because if you come with us without approval, someone will label it ‘Horizon kidnapping an Iowa-class.’”

  Wisconsin’s jaw tightened.

  “That would be inaccurate.”

  Kade’s mouth twitched.

  “It would be paperwork,” he corrected.

  Wisconsin exhaled sharply through his nose.

  Salmon sighed dramatically.

  “Paperwork is the true enemy.”

  Fairplay nodded.

  “The Abyss is just… wet.”

  Hensley muttered, “That’s not—”

  Kade raised one hand.

  “No,” he said, “Fairplay’s right. The Abyss kills you. Paperwork makes you wish it would.”

  That got a small laugh out of the table.

  Even Wisconsin’s mouth twitched again, faintly.

  Then Senko appeared with a tray of food like an angel of domestic order.

  “Please eat,” she said softly, setting bowls down carefully. “It will get cold.”

  Everyone immediately complied.

  Not because Senko ordered them.

  Because there was something about the way she offered food that made it feel… sacred.

  Like refusing would be cruelty.

  Kade took a seat.

  Tōkaidō sat beside him, quiet but present.

  Senko fussed gently around them, making sure everyone had enough.

  The conversation loosened.

  Hensley’s squad started talking about the arcade—how Fairplay “glared” at machines until they surrendered, how Salmon attempted to “negotiate” with a ticket dispenser, how Morales nearly got kicked out for shouting at a rhythm game like it had insulted his mother.

  Reeves listened more than she spoke, but she smiled occasionally, small and shy.

  Wilkinson spoke rarely, but when he did, it was a dry comment that made people laugh harder because it was unexpected.

  Fairplay told a story about threatening an arcade mascot.

  Salmon claimed she had “liberated” three plush toys from “capitalist oppression.”

  Hensley looked like he was aging in real time.

  And Wisconsin—

  Wisconsin sat stiffly at first, then gradually loosened in the smallest ways.

  His posture softened a fraction.

  His gaze stopped scanning the room like it was a hostile zone.

  He even spoke once, quietly, in response to Finch’s story about the shooter cabinet.

  “You did that with a rifle game,” Wisconsin said, tone skeptical.

  Finch nodded eagerly.

  “Yes.”

  Wisconsin’s eyes narrowed.

  “…Acceptable.”

  Finch looked like he’d been personally blessed by a god.

  Kade ate quietly, watching the table.

  This—this noise, this laughter, this ridiculousness—was what he’d been building at Horizon without calling it that.

  A base wasn’t walls.

  A base wasn’t guns.

  A base wasn’t repair docks and purification systems.

  A base was people who could sit together and laugh and still be ready to fight tomorrow.

  He didn’t say that.

  He just ate.

  And for once, the good mood inside him didn’t feel suspicious.

  It felt… earned.

  After dinner, the convoy slowly dispersed.

  Hensley’s squad gathered the console box like it was a holy relic and carried it back toward Tōkaidō’s ship sector for safekeeping.

  Salmon insisted on “guard duty” for the console, which Kade immediately denied.

  Fairplay tried to steal a pastry “for later” and got caught by Senko, who politely scolded her until Fairplay looked genuinely ashamed.

  Reeves helped clean plates quietly, then slipped away with Wilkinson in calm silence.

  Wisconsin lingered at the doorway for a moment, eyes on Kade.

  He didn’t speak right away.

  Then he said, low enough that it didn’t carry.

  “…Thank you.”

  Kade blinked.

  “For what,” he asked.

  Wisconsin’s jaw flexed.

  “For not treating me like a trophy,” he said.

  Kade stared at him for a second.

  Then, because he couldn’t help himself:

  “You haven’t been on Horizon yet,” Kade said. “We might still treat you like furniture.”

  Wisconsin’s mouth twitched.

  “Try it,” he said.

  Kade’s eyes narrowed.

  “…Tempting.”

  Wisconsin nodded once, like he’d expected that answer, then turned and left—boots heavy, posture controlled.

  Tōkaidō watched him go.

  Then looked back at Kade, voice soft.

  “He respects you,” she said.

  Kade exhaled.

  “That’s unfortunate,” he replied automatically.

  Tōkaidō’s ears flicked.

  “Kade,” she corrected gently, using his name in private the way she only did when she was being brave.

  Kade blinked.

  Tōkaidō continued, voice quiet but sure.

  “It is not unfortunate,” she said. “It is… rare.”

  Kade’s throat tightened slightly.

  He looked away, because if he looked at her too long while she spoke like that, he might understand things.

  He was not ready.

  “Come on,” he said instead. “We have to be up early.”

  Tōkaidō nodded.

  “Yes, Commander.”

  They walked back toward her shipform through Shoals’ night corridors—harbor lights gleaming, patrol wakes cutting the water, the city-fortress still humming.

  When they reached the captain’s quarters corridor, the air grew quieter.

  More private.

  Kade’s shoulders loosened slightly as if his body recognized “safe enough.”

  He stepped inside the quarters.

  Tōkaidō followed, pausing near the same spot she’d hovered the night before.

  Kade turned, already halfway into his routine—unfastening gloves, loosening collar, preparing for bed.

  And then he paused.

  Because he realized he was still in that faintly good mood.

  The kind that made him softer without permission.

  He couldn’t name it.

  He didn’t try to.

  He simply said, gruff and practical, “Get some sleep.”

  Tōkaidō’s cheeks warmed faintly.

  “Yes,” she murmured.

  Kade turned away, because he was not going to deal with the way her eyes looked right now.

  He moved toward the bed.

  The night was quiet.

  Tomorrow, they would leave.

  Tomorrow, Shoals would become distance behind them.

  Tomorrow, Horizon would reclaim them like gravity.

  But tonight—

  Tonight, the convoy had eaten together.

  Tonight, they had laughed.

  Tonight, an Iowa-class had sat at a table with marines and a hat-wearing submarine and survived the experience.

  And Kade, in a way he did not understand yet, had danced with his flagship under chandeliers and dared the world to acknowledge she was alive.

  He did not put that into words.

  He just prepared for bed—

  and let the quiet settle around him like something almost gentle.