Page 54 of Alien War Daddy's Got Rizz
I should be relieved.
Instead, I feel hollow.
The last negotiation with Dr. Foster circles in my mind, twisting on replay like static in the back of my head. And underneath that — the unsettling sensation of unsteadiness, like gravity has shifted just a fraction but enough that every step feels like falling.
Grau isn’t here.
Not yet.
And after last night — after the way he watched me, the steadiness of his gaze, thatsomethingin his expression when I asked for nothing more than support — I’m beginning to wonder if he’s the only solid ground I have left.
I pad into the kitchen, the floor warm beneath my bare feet, and start the coffee maker with a sigh. The burble of grounds and steam feels soothing in a way that logic argues I don’t deserve. Coffee isn’t a solution. But itdoeswake up the senses.
I close my eyes, inhale deeply: rich roast, synthetic citrus from the cleaner I used last night, and a faint note of sex and smoke lingering in the air — a ghost of last night’s closeness, even though we agreed to keep things separate.
Separate.
I repeat the word in my head like a mantra.
It’s supposed to keep me anchored.
But it doesn’t.
My comm unit buzzes — a message from Tidball, polite, reassuring as always, reminding me of the upcoming board meeting and that optics matter.
“Optics,” he says.
As if my company’s vitality depended onappearances.
A laugh that tastes bitter escapes me.
I rub my temples, the heat rising behind my eyes. I don’t want to face another morning of negotiations and transactions and veiled barbs disguised as “advice.” I want someone who looks at me like I matter — not like a ledger.
I want Grau.
Even though the sensation of wanting him sends a pinch of panic through my chest.
The door chime announces an unexpected visitor.
I set my coffee cup down a little too hard and turn, expecting another rep, another insistent message, another small crisis.
It’shim.
Grau.
Standing here in the doorframe like he belongs, like he’s been invited. His coat — dark and heavy — drapes over one arm, and his eyes catch the soft morning light in a way that makes me forget to breathe.
He doesn’t step inside at once.
He doesn’t need to.
His presence fills the room before his boots even touch the floor.
“Morning,” he says, his voice still rough at the edges, like he hasn’t slept either.
I want to tell him no, that I don’t need distractions.
Instead I say, “Coffee’s in the mug warmer.”
