Page 147 of Alien War Daddy's Got Rizz
He smiles, solemn and soft. “Your father would’ve been proud.”
I swallow hard.
That echo of legacy—the idea that the worst and best of our inheritance can blend—settles somewhere in my chest. I don’t answer. I don’t need to.
The moment unfurls like starlight.
When it’s time, I step up to the podium at the station’s official dedication. The thrumming press corps forms a gentle tide, clicking shutters and leaning in for emphasis. I can feel every lens pointed at me, and for the first time in my adult life, it doesn’t feel like a trap.
It feels likeproof.
“Welcome to Unity Station,” I begin—voice firm, elegant, unmistakably mine. No urgency. No hesitation. Just presence.
A murmur ripples through the crowd—this isn’t the insecure heiress anymore. This is a woman who rebuilt an empire and gave it a soul.
“We are gathered here not to celebrate steel and circuitry, but to honor resilience. To recognize that every person who has worn a uniform, carried a burden, or returned from war carries a story worthy of dignity, not dismissal.”
I sweep my gaze across the assembled dignitaries, scientists, families, and veterans in the front rows. Their eyes shine in the station’s radiant glow.
“Our mission,” I continue, letting the gravity of the words sink into every corner of the observation deck, “is to ensure that no veteran’s path back to life is met with cold bureaucracy or hollow sympathy. Here, we bridge the gap between loss and rebirth. Here, we give form to care in a way that the galaxy has never seen.”
Applause meets me not as echo but as affirmation. Sharp. Deliberate. Unmistakably earned.
And when the final applause swells, I step down, letting the warmth of achievement settle into my bones.
After the ceremony, well-wishers drift away in clusters—engineers celebrating successful test runs, doctors discussing neural feedback loops in prosthetics, families tearing up over reunion videos. The station feels alive; you can glimpse it in the way laughter lingers in doorways, in how the hum of the life support carries something more lyrical than mechanical.
My communicator buzzes—brief, official, and utterly routine. I ignore it.
I don’t need interruption.
I needpresence.
And that’s when I find him.
He’s leaning against the rail of an upper observation balcony, silhouetted against the galaxy. Station lights trace the arc of hisshoulders—solid, unreadable, perfect. He doesn’t glance at me at first; he doesn’t need to. I can see the story in his posture: containment, control, serenity earned through chaos.
I approach quietly—footsteps soft, breath steady.
He doesn’t turn.
But I know hefeelsme.
“Beautiful,” I murmur, voice low enough to barely ripple the air between us.
He doesn’t respond.
He just watches the stars.
And for a moment, we speak with silence.
It isn’t empty.
It’sshared.
Galactic winds flicker past the station’s shields, and the stars wink in distant eccentricities—like they’re teasing secrets just out of reach. I breathe in that scent: recycled air spiked with ionized glow.
“That was a hell of a speech,” he says after a beat—matter-of-fact, uncluttered.
