With a strangled sound that was part-gasp, part-whimper, Lyra didn't just leave. She evaporated. One second she was a statue of flaming embarrassment, the next she was a blur of motion, transforming into a veritable crimson mist that streaked past Rex and vanished down the hallway without a single backward glance.
A profound, ringing silence descended upon the living room, broken only by the soft hum of the ship's systems.
Rex stood frozen in the doorway, one eyebrow creeping slowly upward. He looked from the empty space where Lyra had been, to Nyra, who had brought a hand to her forehead, her shoulders shaking with silent laughter she couldn't contain, and finally to his son.
Michael looked up at his father, all traces of his earlier cleverness replaced by the guileless confusion of a five-year-old who had just launched a social torpedo and watched it hit its mark with devastating effect.
Rex's deep voice cut through the quiet, laced with pure, unadulterated bewilderment.
