“Don’t let me worsen the look,” he mutters.
I snort. “You fix the sign, Troka. Don’t fix me.”
He exhales. I see the tightness there—his jaw, his brow. He steps back, turns to the sign again.
Later that evening, Jorla corners me. “You two are weird,” she says, leaning close in the service corridor where no customers roam. “The way he comes by, the way you?—”
I cut her off. “Keep your observations on the drinks tab, please.”
She laughs, but her eyes flick over my shoulder. “Just saying. I see you. I see him. Something’s changing.”
I swallow. “Don’t say I told you so if it goes wrong.”
She nods. “Fair enough. Just—be careful.”
I want to tell her to shut up and stop seeing. But I don’t. Because she’s right. Iamwatching him. Watching how he ruffles his hair when he thinks no one’s looking. How he leans over to help Caelix with a toy the kid dropped. How his laughter, deep and rough, echoes too close to something I can’t admit.
Night shifts drag. The jukebox plays a lull song. The bar glimmers low lights. The humidity from the street presses through the open doors. The smell of fried snacks, stale beer, and hover fumes swirl in my nostrils.
Troka leans against the bar, arms crossed. He watches me. I pretend not to see.
I pour a late drink. He says, “Your pour’s shaky.”
I snap, “I’ve got fatigue, not fear.”
He frowns. “No, Alaina—fear is easier.”
My palm presses flat to the bar. I taste wood varnish and clean glass.
He steps closer. “You still here?”
“Yes,” I whisper.
He breathes, close enough that I feel the heat from his scales. “I want to help.”
I choke on that. Help from him—after everything—is a loaded phrase.
I yank the glass away. “I’m fine.”
His eyes narrow. “Fine for whom?”
I won’t answer.
The night drags. Caelix starts crying somewhere behind the scenes. I excuse myself and bustle back—my heart pounding, chest tight. Troka trails behind.
I hear him behind me, “I’ll hold him.”
I stop, spin. “No.” Tone sharp. Panic in it.
He raises hands. “Just for a moment.”
He sees the wear on me—the lines under my eyes, the way I shiver. Maybe he sees more.
I relent. “Five minutes. That’s it.”
He picks up Caelix like a butterfly in careful hands. The kid squeaks, reaches. Troka crooks him to his chest. Caelix’s golden eyes study Troka’s face. Troka smiles softly. The kid laughs. Tiny sound that rips me open.
Troka turns to me. “Look at him. He’s…”
