Page 4 of A Day as My Alien’s Pet

"I love you too, little star."

Lucca's breathing gradually evened under my hand. When he finally opened his eyes again, he looked sleepy, satisfied, and very pleased with himself for someone who had done almost nothing.

Exactly as he should.

"Ready to eat?" I asked.

His stomach answered before he did.

I rose and held out a hand.

"Come, pup. Breakfast."

Chapter 3. O’li

In the kitchen, I moved to my workspace, already reaching for the tools and ingredients I'd need for our breakfast. Behind me, Lucca padded along on bare feet, although now dressed in simple clothes. He was always this hyper, bratty, loud little thing when he wasn't sleepy. My favorite little thing.

I'd designed this kitchen myself, accounting for our height difference. My preparation counter stood at the perfect height for my seven-foot frame, while lower surfaces and accessible storage meant Lucca could reach what he needed. When I permitted it. This morning, though, I wanted him to wait while I worked. It was good for him to practice patience, even if we both knew how that usually went.

My hands moved through the morning preparation. The knife, designed for my six-fingered grip, sliced through the dense purple fruits we'd gotten from the market yesterday. I was aware of Lucca's presence behind me like a small star, radiating warmth and mischief. He'd positioned himself just at the edge of my peripheral vision, and I could feel his black eyes tracking every movement of my hands. His weight shifted from foot to foot, that restless energy looking for an outlet.

The first theft was almost subtle. As I turned to retrieve vegetables from the cooling unit, a small hand darted toward the cutting board. By the time I turned back, a single berry had vanished, and Lucca stood in exactly the same spot, though now with the telltale bulge of his cheek as he tried not to chew too obviously.

I continued chopping, letting my mouth remain neutral even as amusement warmed my chest. The berry had been perfectly ripe; its juice was probably staining his lips purple already. Such a small rebellion, hardly worth acknowledging. I made my movements slightly more exaggerated, turning my back more fully as I reached for the grain container.

This time, I heard the soft sound of his feet against the floor, quick little steps that brought him closer. A piece of the soft white cheese I'd cubed disappeared next. He was less subtle about this one. I caught the movement reflected in the surface of the kitchen unit, watched him pop it into his mouth with satisfaction.

Without turning around, I spoke as if the thought had just occurred to me. "Would you like to score the morning bread? Four diagonal cuts, just breaking the surface." It gave him an excuse to stay close while I pretended not to notice his game. He made a small, excited sound of acknowledgment. My hands continued their work, slicing vegetables into uniform pieces, arranging them in the patterns that pleased me, while he cut the bread. But that chore was far too calm and brief for him.

Lucca was growing bolder. His third approach lacked any pretense of stealth. He practically bounced toward the counter, reaching for a slice of grain bread I'd just finished cutting. His fingertips had just brushed it when I shifted my weight slightly, just a subtle shift that could be mistaken for casual movement, but sufficient to make him think I might turn around.

He jerked his hand back, but his momentum was already committed. That boundless energy that made him so endearing also made him clumsy when excited. His elbow caught the container of sauce I'd been preparing, a ceramic piece that had taken me weeks to select for its perfect proportions.

Time seemed to slow as I watched it topple. My hand moved to catch it, my extra-jointed fingers extending to their full reach, but Lucca was in the way, and I couldn't risk grabbing too forcefully near him. The container hit the counter edge with a sharp sound, its contents—a morning sauce of oils and herbs—spreading across the counter and dripping onto the floor in thick, golden drops.

Lucca stood frozen, his eyes wide and fixed on the mess, his body tense as though preparing to bolt. The excitement that had animated him seconds before drained away, replaced by something close to fear. Not of me. I'd made sure he never had reason for that, but of disappointing me.

I surveyed the damage. The container had survived, merely tipped rather than broken. The sauce could be remade. The mess, while extensive, was manageable. These were facts, not catastrophes.

But Lucca needed structure, needed boundaries to feel secure. This had gone beyond playful testing into carelessness, and we both knew what came next.

"That's enough, pup." I kept my voice level, firm but without anger. "Corner time."

His shoulders dropped immediately, accepting the consequence even as his lower lip pushed out in that pout he couldn't quite suppress. The shift from playful to penitent happened so quickly it might have been comical if I didn't understand how much he needed this structure, this certainty that actions had consequences and that I would enforce them consistently.

I placed my hand on the back of his neck, that same gentle grip from earlier but now with a different purpose. His skin was warm under my fingers, and I could feel the slight tremble that ran through him. Not fear, but the complex mix of emotions that discipline brought out in him. Embarrassment, certainly. Disappointment in himself. But underneath it all, barely admitted, was enjoyment. He loved to be disciplined. He needed me to set these boundaries, to be the steady constant in his world.

"Come," I said simply, and he came, feet dragging only slightly as I guided him to the corner of the kitchen where his cushion waited.

The discipline corner was deliberately visible from my workspace, allowing me to monitor him while continuing my tasks. It wasn't about shame, though his flushed cheeks suggested he felt some anyway. It was about pause, reflection, and the reestablishment of our dynamic. That's why almost every room in our house had a discipline corner.

I positioned him facing the wall, my hands gentle but insistent. He knew the position without being told: kneeling, back straight, hands at the back of his head, nose nearly touching the corner where two walls met. The cushion under his knees would keep him comfortable enough, though comfort wasn't exactly the point.

"You need to be more careful in the kitchen, little one," I said, my hand still resting on his neck for a moment longer. The harmonic quality of my voice dropped to its lower register, the one that always made him go still. "We've discussed this before."

He nodded, a small, miserable movement that made his dark hair shift against my fingers. No excuses, no arguments. He accepted my judgment completely, trusted me to know what he needed even when he didn't want it. It was delightful. He was such a good boy.

Chapter 4. Lucca