Alien Daddy’s War Pup

Chapter 1

KAIRO

Maravel Station, Holocafé BetaSix

The stim-tea’s bitter. Too bitter. I swirl it with my spoon anyway, as if coaxing sweetness from liquid bitterness is a metaphor for my whole damn life.

I lift the mug, watch the blueish steam curl like dancing smoke snakes over the rim, and try to pretend I don’t notice the gaggle of university kids whispering in the corner.

They're not subtle. They never are.

“Is that—?”

“I think so. Kairo Jones, right?”

“The Crimson Affair woman?”

“She’s shorter in person.”

I close my eyes, exhale through my nose, and take a slow sip.

My stim-tea’s cooled just enough to be tolerable, but it still tastes like boiled regret.

I tap through the headlines on my compad.

More war rumors in the Varn quadrant. A new holo-drama about the Sarrik Empire.

One piece on the ethics of narrative journalism, featuring a quote from my old editor at The Haven-7 Beacon.

Great.

My name’s not in that headline, but it doesn’t have to be.

Everyone who’s read The Crimson Affair knows who “Kaelena” is.

Knows that the violet-eyed alien mobster “Jaxan Korr” was based on someone real.

And I’ve signed enough books for smirking readers with conspiratorial winks to know they think I lived it.

They’re right. Just not all of it. The wild parts? Sure. The love affair? Gods, yes.

The secret baby I kept hidden from an imprisoned crime prince while turning our doomed romance into a galaxy-wide phenomenon?

Yeah, that part’s not in the books.

Another ping chirps on my compad—louder than necessary, as if the universe wants to see me twitch in public. I flick my eyes down.

From: Ben’s School → Reminder: Substitute teacher assignment failed. Temporary coverage required.

I groan aloud.

Another one?

That’s the third this month. What are they doing to these poor subs, flinging them into a classroom of five-year-olds like raw meat into a den of fang-lions?

I rub my temples. My son’s school means well, truly.

But the turnover rate in his class is ridiculous.

Ben’s a good kid. Smart, charming, full of unholy energy.

And maybe, just maybe, a little bit intense in the way only a half-grolgath child could be.

Not that anyone outside my closest circle knows that.

“Excuse me,” a voice says, a bit too brightly, a bit too rehearsed. “Are you… Kairo Jones?”

I look up slowly, offering my most neutral smile. She’s maybe nineteen, with violet hair and a glitter filter on her cheeks. A student, most likely. She’s holding her holo-pad like it’s a sacred scroll.

“I am.”

“I just… I love your books. Especially book two—when Kaelena almost assassinates the diplomat to save Jaxan. That was… oof. Fire.” She fans herself with two fingers. “Did you base that on a real mission?”

“I’m afraid I can’t comment on the inspiration behind specific plot points,” I say smoothly, finishing my tea in a gulp. “But thank you for reading.”

“Can I get a pic?”

I pause for just a breath. Then nod. She leans in, flashes a peace sign, and clicks the shot before I’ve even centered my face.

“Thanks!” she beams. “I want to write too someday. But like, my life’s not that interesting, you know?”

I give her a smile that’s more tired than kind. “Neither was mine, until it was.”

She hurries back to her table. They start giggling again, louder now, emboldened by proximity.

I consider ordering another tea—or maybe a double shot of something stronger—but instead, I stand, sling my bag over one shoulder, and stride out of the café before I hear the words mob lover or baby daddy muttered behind my back.

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't know how to levitate chairs.”

“Well, he convinced the other kids he did.”

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 latest Crimson Affair outline 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. A lot more.

A knock startles me. Sharp. Quick. Then again, with the kind of rhythm that makes my spine straighten.

No one knocks like that anymore.

I cross to the door slowly. My heart’s thudding in my ears.

When it slides open, it’s just a delivery droid. Package from the school—Ben’s lunchbox. Left behind. The message reads:

Your child forgot this again. Might be time for backups. He claims he was busy drawing dragons.

I breathe. In. Out. And I laugh.

I open the box. There’s a crumpled picture inside. The dragon. Purple and gold, just like Jenna said. But in the corner, in shaky five-year-old handwriting, he’s labeled it:

Daddy.

And just under it, in smaller text:

I miss you.

He’s never said those words out loud. He’s never asked. Never pushed. Just accepted whatever story I gave him. That he came from a place of love. That his father was “far away.”

And now he’s drawing dragons. Dragons with gold horns.

Just like Jav’s ceremonial grolgath crest.

I clutch the picture to my chest.

I’ve lied. I’ve protected. I’ve rationalized.

But Ben’s not asking for the story anymore.

He’s drawing it himself.

And I don’t know how much longer I can keep pretending he doesn’t deserve to know it.