Page 59 of What Makes an Alien a Dad?

“She said she hasn’t decided,” Kear barked, gripping my elbow. “No more questions.” Holding an arm in front of him like a shield, he maneuvered me through the crowd that was now taking over the stage. “You did great,” he said softly into my ear on the way to our seats. “I’m so proud of you, my flower.”

The nickname tugged with warmth and longing at my heart, the way it did when I saw it in Walter’s letters. I loved the new nickname that he’d given me. It wasn’t a common one, and it was only between Walter and me.

Why would Kear suddenly start calling me that, too?

The noise of the crowd, the lights in my face, and his insistent tugging at my arm as Kear tried to get me into my seat—all of it finally became too much. Doubts buzzed in my mind like a swarm of bees.

“I need to get out of here,” I whispered to Kear.

“Are you not feeling well?”

“It’s the noise. It’s just too much.”

“This way.” He stirred me to the left, then opened the door on the side of the stairs. Turning to the crowd following us, he raised his hand. “Give her some space,” he growled. “There will be some time for your questions later.”

The crowd ebbed, and he ushered me through the door out into the level below the patio, behind the seating.

It was dark here. The only light came from outside. The night cityscape filled the huge windows that surrounded a circular space behind the seats of the arena with the stage. This floor must serve as an observation deck, but also as storage because the spare folding tables were neatly stacked along a wall.

“Any pain?” Kear asked in a clipped voice of a doctor. “Dizziness? Cramps?”

“No.” I looked into his eyes. They were dark purple here in the semi-darkness but as beautiful as ever.

“Something is bothering you,” he stated.

How could I describe this weird feeling nagging at the back of my brain? I couldn’t put a finger on it, and that was the most irritating.

“Maya, what’s wrong? Are you restless? Tired? Do you want to leave? It’s late. You need your rest.”

You need your rest...

You have to take care of yourself...

Not the exact words, but the tone was the same—caring. And my response to them was similar. They made me feel warm and safe. Cherished. The way Kear spoke evoked the same feelings I had when reading Walter’s letters.

And that nickname... Flower.

It couldn’t possibly be a coincidence.

I never assumed my correspondence with Walter was absolutely private. They’d warned me that all interplanetary messages were scanned for security purposes. It didn’t worry me, since I didn’t include any discussions on political or military topics or whatever else would be considered unacceptable by the Liaison Committee. I never considered, however, that as the head of the study, Kear might have access to my communication with my boyfriend.

“You’ve read my letters to Walter.” I held his gaze, searching those pretty eyes for any sign of denial.

He winced, halting his breath.

I shook my head. “Just tell me the truth, Kear. Please. Did you read Walter’s letters?”

“No,” he said and added before I could feel any sense of relief, “I wrote them.”

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