The corridor outside the café hums with the usual Maravel traffic—plasma carts whining, mechdogs yipping, a merchant shouting about nanoweave socks. I tap my earpiece.
“Hey, Jenna,” I say when the school secretary picks up. “I got the notification. Again.”
“Oh, Kairo! Yes, I was just about to send a follow-up. Ms. Tindrel quit after lunch today. She left a message that just said, quote, ‘I’m not equipped for this.’”
I wince. “Ben?”
“Not just Ben. The whole class. But yes… Ben may have tried to teach the others how to levitate chairs.”
“He doesn'tknowhow to levitate chairs.”
“Well, he convinced the other kidshedid.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Any leads on a new sub?”
“We’ve got a few applications pending. One came in about an hour ago—looks promising. Credentials check out.”
I blink. “That’s fast.”
“I know. But honestly, if this person survives the week, I might marry them myself.”
I smirk. “Thanks, Jenna.”
“Anytime. Oh—and Ben painted a dragon today. He named it ‘Daddy.’”
My heart skips. Thumps. Drops.
“He what?”
“Yeah. Purple dragon with gold horns. Said it was his Daddy. He told Ms. Tindrel it lives in a cave full of stories. Cute, right?”
“Yeah,” I croak. “Real cute.”
I end the call before I can cry in the middle of a hallway.
Back at my apartment, I collapse into the couch and let the silence fold around me. I swipe open my home console, flicking through my folders—manuscripts, invoices, abandoned half-drafts. I open the latestCrimson Affairoutline and stare at the blinking cursor. It's supposed to be a high-stakes rescue, but the only thing my brain can imagine right now is a purple dragon with Jav's eyes and Ben's laugh.
I don’t write.
Instead, I pull up an old photo—me and Jav, blurry, stolen, hidden deep in a locked folder no one knows exists. I trace his smile with my fingertip, and I swear, just for a second, I can hear his voice again.
“You should’ve stayed in bed that morning, cub. That reporter brain of yours was gonna get you devoured.”
“You weren’t complaining when I snuck into your club with a mic in my bra.”
“Damn straight. Best surveillance attempt I’ve ever caught.”
I shake it off and drop my head into my hands.
It’s been five years since I saw him. Four since Ben was born. Three since I gave up chasing “real journalism” and leaned into the fiction game. My books pay the bills now. They give Ben a safe place to sleep. A warm home. An education.
But I haven’t let anyone in. Not really. Not since Jav.
And lately, I’ve been thinking about him more. Alotmore.
A knock startles me. Sharp. Quick. Then again, with the kind of rhythm that makes my spine straighten.
No one knocks like that anymore.
