Page 22 of The First Child
“She’s laughing at us,” I realize.
Sylas pauses in his systematic approach to tree assembly, his head tilting as he processes Aniska’s emotional output. “Not laughing. Enjoying the emotional resonance between us. She finds our dynamic… satisfying.”
“Our dynamic?”
“The way we challenge each other while working toward common goals. She experiences it as a form of play rather than conflict.”
I study his face, noting the slight flush that colors his pale skin. The empathic connection we all share means Aniska feels everything we feel—including the attraction that sparks between us whenever we’re in close proximity.
“So, she knows,” I say quietly.
“That we care about each other? Yes. That we’re attracted to each other? Also, yes.” His markings pulse with what might be embarrassment. “Empathic children don’t understand the difference between emotional and physical connection. To her, it’s all one continuous spectrum of affection.”
“Is that a problem?”
“I don’t know. There’s no precedent for raising empathic children in romantically complex environments.”
“Romantically complex.” I can’t help smiling at his clinical description of whatever this is between us. “Is that what we’re calling it?”
“Would you prefer a different term?”
“I’d prefer we stop overthinking it and focus on making our daughter’s first Christmas magical.”
The words slip out before I can examine their implications, but I don’t take them back. Because that’s what she is, isn’t she? Not legally, not officially, but in every way that matters. Aniska is our daughter, and we’re her family, and Christmas is about celebrating the people you love regardless of how traditional that love might look.
Sylas goes very still, his hands frozen on the tree branch he was positioning. “Our daughter.”
“Yes.”
“Not just joint custody or shared responsibility.”
“No.” I move around the half-assembled tree to stand closer to him, near enough to see the silver flecks in his eyes and the way his markings shift color with emotional intensity. “She’s ours, Sylas. We’re her parents in every way that counts.”
“And we’re…”
“Whatever we decide to be. Partners, co-parents, something more if we want.” I reach up to touch the bioluminescent patterns that trace his jawline, feeling the electric warmth that seems to generate wherever we make contact. “But first, we finish this tree so our daughter can have the Christmas she deserves.”
His smile this time carries enough intensity to make my knees weak. “Our daughter.”
“Our daughter.”
The tree comes together more easily after that, as if acknowledging our commitment to this improvised family removes some invisible barrier to cooperation. Sylas’s systematic approach combines with my creative chaos to produce something that’s neither perfectly organized nor completely random—a compromise that somehow works better than either method alone.
“Lights next,” I announce, pulling out the first string and checking for dead bulbs.
“These emit electromagnetic radiation in the visible spectrum,” Sylas observes, examining the LED array with scientific curiosity. “Similar to our bioluminescent displays but externally generated.”
“They’re pretty,” I translate. “And they make everything feel warm and safe and magical.”
“Psychological comfort through sensory stimulation.”
“You’re really going to analyze every aspect of this, aren’t you?”
“I’m trying to understand the cultural significance so I can participate appropriately.” He pauses, color rising in his cheeks again. “I want to do this right. For Aniska. For you.”
The admission hits me somewhere in the region of my heart, carrying more emotional impact than any declaration of love could have managed. He’s stepping outside his comfort zone, learning to navigate human traditions he doesn’t fullyunderstand, because he wants to give us both something meaningful.
“Sylas.” I set down the lights and move to stand directly in front of him, close enough that I have to tip my head back to meet his eyes. “You don’t have to understand everything to participate. Sometimes the magic is in the doing, not the analysis.”
