Page 47 of Alien War Daddy's Got Rizz

But the word doesn’t mean good.

The tension pinches between us like a cord pulled too tight.

I look down at my hands — large, scarred, steady in appearance, but not in feeling.

“Yara,” I say slowly, choosing my words with more care than I choose most battles, “you look like you haven’t slept in days.”

She laughs — soft, hollow, like someone laughing at a distant thunderstorm.

“I haven’t,” she says. “But I have to keep it together.”

Her eyes flick to the comm unit at her wrist — a blinking red notification begging for attention.

And suddenly, it’s not just exhaustion I see in her eyes.

It’s pressure.

Unrelenting. Invisible. Constant.

“Another crisis?” I ask.

She shrugs, but the gesture is tired.

“Supply chain glitch,” she mutters. “Or something called that. A data leak, maybe. Tidball says it’s minor, that we’re overreacting.”

Her voice grows quieter as she speaks, like each word takes effort.

I watch her struggle to breathe through the tension, and inside something snaps.

Not rage.

Not violence.

Just nearness.

And a promise I didn’t know I was making.

“Let me see it,” I say.

She doesn’t jump. She doesn’t recoil.

But I see the hesitation — a flicker in her expression, a thing unspoken.

“I can’t ask you to fix my company,” she says after a beat.

“No,” I say. “You asked me to stay out of it. And I respected that.”

I reach out — slow, respectful — and touch her wrist.

Not commanding.

Not pushing.

Just steadying.

Her skin is warm.

Her pulse is rapid, like she’s running silent code in her veins.