Page 31 of Scaled Daddy's Secret Heir
We work. Eat. Monitor. Sleep in shifts, alternating without ever needing to confirm it out loud.
One night, I wake to find him standing at the entry, shirtless, tension coiled through every muscle like he’s waiting for something to strike.
I say nothing.
He doesn’t turn.
Eventually, he exhales. Slow. Shaky.
I lie back down. Pretend I didn’t see. But I do.
Every time.
Two weeks in, and I can navigate this nest with my eyes closed. I know which panel sticks, which cable throws static when it’s overloaded, which seat creaks just enough to give us away if someone’s listening.
I know how to read him, too.
Kalev’s got tells. Not many, but they’re there.
A tightening at the jaw when he’s considering cutting a feed. The way his hand ghosts toward the small of his back when something pings wrong on the scanner. The way he checks my location in the reflection of the screen before taking a step.
Always making sure I’m accounted for.
Always checking the exits.
Always between me and the threat.
I should hate that. Should push against it, pride bristling. But… I don’t.
It doesn’t make me feel small.
It makes me feelseen.
One night, we’re eating—ration bars and reheated synth-noodles, a feast by our standards—and he says, without looking up:
“You haven’t frozen once.”
My fork stops halfway to my mouth.
“What?”
“You’ve been under pressure. Surveillance breaches. Proximity alarms. You move fast. You plan.”
I blink. Swallow the lump in my throat along with the bite of dry soy protein.
“You keeping a checklist?”
“Keeping track.”
“And what if I did freeze?” I ask, sharper than I mean to.
His eyes meet mine. Unflinching. “Then I’d cover you. But you haven’t.”
I don’t know what to do with that. So I mutter, “Still time.”
He just nods. Like that’s true. Like it’sfine. Like it doesn’t matter either way because we’ve got each other’s backs and that’s not aweakness, it’s juststructure.
Gods.
