Page 253 of Destined For Her Alien Daddy
“That was nice.”
“My laugh?”
“Don’t make me say it twice. I am vulnerable before breakfast.”
I take my own tea and lean against the counter carefully. My ribs still pull if I move too quickly, but the pain has diminished from command to commentary. “It felt nice.”
“Good.” She looks into the cup again. “This still tastes criminal.”
“You do not have to drink it.”
“No, I’m committed now. Also, I can feel it opening doors in my sinuses that medicine could not reach.”
“Vakutan efficiency.”
She salutes me with the cup and returns to the skillet. One of the pancakes has begun smoking at the edge.
“Anita.”
“I know.”
“It is burning.”
“I know.”
“The heat setting—”
“I know!”
She flips it too hard. It folds over itself in the pan and becomes a shape that resembles a wounded sea creature. She stares at it. I stare at it. The cooking unit emits a quiet warning chime.
She says, with enormous dignity, “That one is yours.”
“I am honored.”
“You should be.”
I carry the tea to the table while she finishes defeating breakfast. The documents spread across the surface belong to the new initiative: draft oversight procedures, site-risk classification frameworks, access-language notes from Sira, a technical budget proposal from Brakk titled PAY ME MORE OR DIE IN A HOLE, and Anita’s annotated response, which begins with “rude but not entirely wrong.”
I sit and look at them without reaching.
The future has become paper, forms, food, tea, and arguments over safety language.
This should feel too small after Nareth-Kul.
Instead, it feels difficult enough to matter.
Anita brings the plate to the table and sets it down with theatrical pride. “Breakfast.”
The pancakes are uneven, slightly burned, and one appears to have a hole through the center. There is a dish of fruit on the side, which I suspect is her insurance policy.
I pick up a fork. “Thank you.”
“Do not say that like you’re accepting a battlefield sacrifice.”
“I am grateful.”
“You are afraid.”
