She stares, eyes dark. Lips press. Bartender mid-cleaning stops motion. Patrons glance. The air crackles.
She finally speaks, voice small but sharp, “You lost that right when you left.”
That wound opens—deeper than I expected.
I fight not to wince. I gather control. “Maybe I lost the right. But I flew out of my skin when I walked back in.”
She doesn’t answer. She turns away from me—starts stacking glasses. But her frame trembles just a fraction.
I reach out—my glove hesitates—then stows it. I will not demand. I will not force.
“Just let me stay in your orbit,” I murmur. Soft. Raw.
She sets glasses down, hands trembling. Her voice is wind in glass. “You don’t get to orbit me. Not anymore.”
And she walks away.
CHAPTER 13
ALAINA
The next day, I catch myself staring at him again. It’s embarrassing. But the way Troka leans over the broken exit sign he volunteered to fix—his red scales catching the neon flicker—my heart stutters. He’s silent in that moment, fingers working, muscles flexing, golden eyes concentrated. I blink, blot out the image, and carry on wiping glasses.
Jorla slaps my shoulder. “You spacing out again?”
“Just thinking of new cocktail names,” I lie, forcing a grin.
She raises an eyebrow. “Uh-huh. ‘Fade to Red’ isn’t a thing.”
I laugh too loud. “Maybe it should be.”
We’re mid-shift. The bar hums—a mix of hovercar engines bleeding through windows, the clang of glasses, bar chatter. Caelix sleeps in the break room drone cradle; I can hear his soft snores through the wall when the overhead fan spins too fast.
Troka’s here again tonight. Late afternoon he showed up with a crate of fresh synth-fruit to replace the old ones going mushy under our lights. No fanfare. No announcement. He just placed it behind the bar and walked off without waiting for thanks.
I watch him. My throat closes.
Later, during a lull, I find him fixing that sign. I lean over the bar, push a tray toward him.
“Need another tool?” I ask.
He glances over, surprised. “Got one. But thanks.”
“You sure?” I press, stepping toward him. The bar light casts his shadow long across concrete. He’s tall. Too tall for me not to feel small.
He nods, hand pausing on a bolt. “Sharp wrench works.”
We’re silent for a beat. He swivels, sees me close.
“You okay?” he asks. His voice is low, quiet—like he’s stepping careful over broken glass.
I control my voice “Fine.”
He squints. “You look tired.”
I brush it off. “Irregular hours, kid not napping.”
He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear—gentle, but every pixel of skin on my forearm heat-shakes.
