Chapter 5
KAIRO
It’s too early for this.
The emergency ping came right as I was shoving Ben into his cleanest uniform and bribing him with a chocolate protein bar to wear socks that matched.
Again. Another substitute teacher walked out.
That makes five in four weeks. Apparently, one of them cried.
Another joined a cult. One just ghosted mid-recess.
I follow the sound of raised voices down the corridor to the admin wing. Principal Jennings’ door is open, and chaos is leaking out into the hall like steam from a ruptured pipe.
"I don't care if he's got a degree from a moonbase monastery,” she snaps, pacing in her socks—heels discarded by her desk. “If he can count to ten and doesn’t faint when a five-year-old throws glitter at him, he’s hired.”
A younger woman—maybe a guidance counselor or a deeply underpaid intern—winces. “But ma’am, we should still run a background—”
“Fine! Run it. But only after he survives three hours in that class.”
I clear my throat. “You wanted to see me?”
Jennings spins toward me with wild eyes and a lopsided bun. “Jones! Thank every known deity. Please tell me you know a miracle worker. Or know how to clone yourself.”
“I mean, if I had a clone, I’d send her on dates with Maliek so I don’t have to suffer through his ten-minute wine notes,” I mutter, stepping inside. “But no. I’m fresh out of genetic backups.”
She laughs. A little too hard. The kind of laugh that borders on a sob.
“We’re barely keeping heads above water here,” she says. “Half the kids in that room think nap time is a threat. We need someone consistent. Someone who can command attention. Who understands children.”
“You need a mob enforcer,” I say without thinking.
And then I laugh. Until I realize I’m not joking.
Jennings opens her mouth to reply, but her gaze suddenly lifts over my shoulder. Her whole face changes—like someone flipped a switch from burnt out administrator to wide-eyed hope junkie.
“Oh. My. Stars.”
I turn.
And my world flips.
There, at the front desk, filling the tiny waiting room like he owns the atmosphere, stands Jav Kuraken.
In a suit.
Three-piece. Tailored. Midnight blue with black trim. His scales gleam like molten rubies under the sterile school fluorescents. His horns are polished. His grin? That crooked, lazy sin of a smile I used to feel in places that still ache when I think about him.
My breath leaves me in a slow, shocked exhale.
He sees me.
Of course he sees me.
“Miss Jones,” he purrs. “Or is it Principal now?”
“Ms.” I snap. “And what in the galaxy do you think you’re doing here?”
“Applying,” he says, holding up a crisp folder. “I heard you were in dire need of educators.”
Jennings is already halfway to him, hand extended. “You’re a teacher?”
“Certified across three systems,” Jav replies smoothly. “Early Developmental Education with a focus in Inter-Species Behavior. I specialize in classroom cohesion, emotional regulation, and—”
“—interrogation techniques,” I mutter.
He ignores me.
Jennings takes the folder, eyes scanning the contents like she’s just been handed a winning lottery ticket. “Everything’s in order. No gaps. Oh—references!”
“All glowing, I assure you.”
“They’re from unlisted contacts in security,” she murmurs, flipping pages. “That’s impressive. You worked on Cephalon-4?”
“Briefly,” he says, casually.
“You survived Cephalon-4?”
“With honor.”
I sputter. “He wasn’t—!”
“Ms. Jones,” Jennings says, holding up a hand. “I’m desperate. And he’s breathing. Unless you’ve got something substantial to share, I’m moving forward.”
“Oh, I’ve got substantial,” I growl.
Jav steps closer. “Don’t I get a personal interview?”
“Not in this century,” I snap.
He leans down, and his voice lowers just enough to make my skin prickle. “You said you needed someone who could handle chaos.”
“I meant children.”
He smirks. “Same difference.”
Jennings waves a hand. “Look, if he’s willing to take the morning shift and doesn’t get eaten by the pack, we can talk longer-term. You said you wanted consistency. This guy looks like he doesn’t rattle easy.”
“That’s because he’s missing the part of his brain that feels guilt or fear,” I hiss.
“And yet,” Jav says, smiling, “I’m very good with children.”
I spin on him. “What game are you playing?”
“No game,” he says, all mock innocence. “I just want to contribute to the community.”
“And you picked this community? Mine?”
He glances past me, toward the hall.
Toward the direction of Ben’s classroom.
My stomach turns inside out.
Before I can stop him, Jennings hands him a badge. “Welcome to Haven-7 Academy. Room 5B.”
He looks down at it, then at me.
“I’ll see you at lunch, Miss Jones.”
I take my leave before I lose my composure. The hallway smells like glue, recycled air, and trouble.
I’m halfway to Room 5B, fists clenched so tight my nails are leaving little half-moons in my palms, when I see him.
Jav Kuraken. Leaning casually against the classroom doorframe like he belongs there, like this is just another day on the job and not the biggest violation of my carefully constructed life I’ve ever seen.
He’s in the same suit from earlier—tailored to dangerous perfection—and there’s a smudge of glitter on his scaled shoulder. Glitter. That’s how I know he’s actually been inside that room. Which means the principal actually let this ridiculous charade continue.
I stop two feet away, breathing hard.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I snap.
Jav looks up, and that smile—half sin, half silk—spreads across his face like he’s been waiting for this exact moment.
“Ms. Jones,” he says smoothly, pushing off the doorframe. “Just doing my civic duty.”
“Oh please.” I cross my arms. “You haven’t done anything civic since—”
“Since I donated to that orphanage on Grelka Prime?” he interrupts, mock thoughtful. “Or the time I personally funded school supplies for displaced spire-kids on Ordex?”
“That was a bribe,” I hiss. “To get out of racketeering charges.”
He shrugs one red-scaled shoulder. “Still helped the kids.”
I glare at him. “Cut the crap, Jav. You show up here, at Ben’s school, with fake credentials and some backwater thesis about empathy and think I’m just going to stand here and let you?”
His expression shifts. Just slightly. The corners of his mouth lower, his eyes flick toward the door where Ben’s voice rings out inside, bright and sharp and laughing.
I notice. Of course I notice.
“I’m not here to cause problems,” he says softly.
“Bullshit.”
“I’m not,” he insists. “I just—wanted to see you.”
My breath catches. Dammit. I wasn’t ready for honesty. Not from him.
“You saw me,” I say. “Congrats. You can leave now.”
“I don’t want to leave.”
I shake my head. “This isn’t some dramatic reunion story, Jav. I have a life now. A real one. One that involves school runs and work deadlines and making sure my kid doesn’t sneak candy into his breakfast cereal.”
He smiles faintly. “Sounds exhausting.”
“It is,” I snap. “And I don’t have time to babysit a mob boss trying to play kindergarten cop.”
He steps closer, tone dropping low. “Then don’t babysit me. Watch me.”
My stomach flips. I hate how he says that. How my body reacts like we’re still in some dark hotel suite on Ceti Vega with the lights off and our futures forgotten.
“You’re not some romantic rogue anymore,” I say, voice thin. “You’re a problem. And problems? I cut those out.”
Jav studies me for a beat, his gaze unreadable.
“Give me one week,” he says.
I blink. “What?”
“One week. Let me prove I can be a part of this place. That I’m not here to mess up your life. If I can’t handle it, if it gets too complicated—”
“You’ll leave?” I finish.
He nods.
I stare at him, the hallway closing in. Kids’ laughter echoes from the classroom behind us. A bell chimes down the corridor. Everything feels too sharp.
“Fine,” I say finally, the word scraping out of me. “One week.”
He gives a slow, satisfied nod.
“But if you so much as breathe the wrong way near Ben—”
“I won’t,” he says, quietly.
I look at him hard.
One week.
And I already feel the clock ticking.