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.
“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. I am watching 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…”
He chokes. Struggles. I see the weight of what we’ve done in that silence.
I say nothing.
He sets the kid down in the cradle—safe, warm. Caelix yawns.
Troka rubs his shoulder. He looks at me. Stricken.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs.
I duck my head. Too many things that “sorry” could mean.
He steps forward. “I’m here now.”
My voice cracks. “You said that before.”
He doesn’t argue. He just studies me like someone seeing a map in a broken city.
I upend a clean tray. “Well. Don’t fuck this up again.”
He doesn’t answer. He just watches me as I go back to serving. I can feel his stare on my back, in my spine, in my pulse.
When I glance back, he’s gone.
The bar feels too empty. The neon glints too harsh. The silence tastes like regret.