There’s frosting in my ear.
Actual frosting.
Cherry vanilla, if I’m not mistaken.
I lean over the sink in the teachers’ break room, rinsing the goop off with a paper towel while behind me, the sound of chaos rises like a battle hymn. Kids squealing, chairs scraping, Garkin shouting something about “stabilizing the icing pressure.”
This is what I get for organizing a cupcake workshop with six-year-olds.
“You brought this on yourself,” Garkin mutters from the corner, looking like he survived a glitter explosion. His shirt’s covered in icing, and his normally slicked-back crest feathers are sagging like sad noodles. A frosting bag hangs from one claw.
“I saiddecoratethe cupcakes, not reenact the Siege of Kalbaron IV.”
“You gave them squeeze tubes,” I say. “This was a warzone the minute I opened the box.”
Ben’s laughing somewhere near the art corner. I hear his high-pitched giggles every few seconds, like tiny sonar pings lighting up the room. I glance back and see him holding up acupcake the size of his head, topped with an actual mountain of multicolored goo. He beams when he catches me looking.
“Hey Mr. K! Look! It’s a galaxy! With sprinkles!”
I grin. “That’s a supernova, kid. Someone call astro-physics.”
Kairo’s standing by the door, arms crossed, trying to keep a stern face and failing miserably. Her lips twitch like she’s swallowing a laugh. And stars, she’s beautiful when she’s not trying to be. Her hair’s pulled up in a loose bun, a streak of blue icing on her wrist from where Ben accidentally tagged her mid-squeeze. She’s out of her element here—and somehow, exactly where she belongs.
After school,I offer to walk them home.
Ben holds one hand, swinging it as he hops over sidewalk cracks, while Kairo walks on my other side, quiet but not cold. The sun’s low, casting golden light across Haven-7’s leafy side district. It smells like warm bread and sidewalk chalk.
“You’re good with them,” she says after a long silence.
“The kids?” I glance down at Ben, who’s now trying to balance on the curb like it’s a tightrope. “I mean, I get them. They’re like little mobsters. Territorial, loud, and motivated by sugar.”
Kairo snorts softly.
Another silence stretches. A comfortable one, if you can believe it.
When we reach her place, Ben runs up the steps ahead of us. Kairo lingers at the gate.
“You want to come in?” she asks. “There’s… something I need to go over. School logistics.”
“Sure,” I say, heart thudding. “Logistics.”
Inside,the place is warm, tidy, and smells faintly like cinnamon and dish soap. There’s a half-finished drawing on the coffee table, stick figures and stars.
Kairo leads me to the kitchen. It’s small but homey—pale walls, magnetic spice racks, a fridge cluttered with kid art and passive-aggressive reminders about groceries.
She leans against the counter, arms folded. The mood shifts.
“I don’t know what you’re doing here, Jav.”
I lean against the opposite counter. “Teaching kids to ice cupcakes?”
Her eyes flash. “You know what I mean. You show up out of nowhere. Insert yourself into Ben’s life. Into mine.”
I run a hand down my jaw. “I didn’t come to disrupt things. I came because I never stopped looking for you.”
Silence.
“I wanted to check every record, but I was in a cage. As soon as I got out, I found you.”
