Page 9 of Scaled Daddy's Secret Heir
I show up twenty minutes before shift change. Civilian clothes. No badge. A datapad with half-real numbers and a forged inquiry from the maintenance division. I take a seat near the back, let the light catch just enough of my profile to make me memorable, but not threatening.
She walks in, scowling at her own boots like they’ve offended her.
The barista fumbles her name again.
“Laya? Tall cav-synth, no sweetener?”
“It’s Leah,” she says dryly, without missing a beat. “But sure, let’s make it weird. Again.”
I smirk behind my cup.
She notices me.
And just like that, her body language shifts. Not a freeze, not a flinch. Just a recalibration. Eyes scan. Shoulders tighten. She logs me like a file she might need later.
Good.
When she walks past, I glance up. Meet her eyes.
“Rough day?” I ask, casual. Not too curious.
She looks at me like I’m a malfunction she didn’t request.
“Does it look like I want conversation, or is this just your mating ritual?”
I blink, then laugh—genuine, sharp.
She doesn’t smile. But something in her posture uncoils a fraction.
“That bad?” I prod.
She shrugs. “I work logistics. The day they stop being bad is the day I check for signs I’ve died.”
I raise my cup. “To mutual suffering.”
“Cheers,” she mutters, and takes the seat across from me without asking. Like she’s daring me to flinch.
She sips her drink. Makes a face.
“Too hot?”
“No,” she says. “Too much existential dread. Burned the flavor right out of it.”
I laugh again. This woman’s all edges. But not in the way most people wield them—defensive, or performative. Leah wears her barbs like a second skin. They’re not decoration. They’re warning signs.
I like that.
“Let me guess,” she says, nodding to my pad. “Freight analytics. You’ve got the posture of someone who’s been elbow-deep in cargo algorithms all week.”
“Close,” I reply. “Station ops audit.”
“Yikes. Who’d you piss off?”
“Everyone.”
“Solid. Keep it up.”
We fall quiet for a moment, and I let it sit. Let her study me the way I’ve been studying her.
