Chapter 3
The cold woke her before dawn. Juni pulled the blanket tighter and curled into a ball, but it didn’t help.
The fabric was thick enough, but the air itself felt sharp against her face.
Her breath misted in front of her nose. How did anyone sleep in this?
She gave up and sat, feet hitting the floor with a shock of ice.
The stone froze her soles on contact. Dancing from foot to foot, she grabbed her boots and yanked them on, then wrapped the blanket around her shoulders like a cape.
The house was silent. Dark. Through the narrow window, she could see the first hints of orange light touching the mountain peaks. Her stomach growled loud enough that she winced and pressed a hand against it.
Coffee. Please let there be coffee.
The hallway was even colder than her room. She shuffled toward the kitchen, the blanket trailing behind her, and pushed through the doorway. Then stopped.
Goraath stood at the counter, naked from the waist up.
Oh shit. Her brain short-circuited. Just blanked.
He was massive. She’d known that already, it was hard to miss when someone was nearly seven feet tall, but seeing him without a shirt made the reality of his size hit harder.
His shoulders were broader than seemed possible, almost as big as the barn outside.
He had his back to her, all that golden-tan skin pulled tight over muscles that bunched as he reached for something on the upper shelf. Then he turned, and she saw the scars.
They were everywhere. A jagged line across his ribs on the left side. Another that curved over his shoulder and disappeared down his back. Smaller ones scattered across his chest and arms… a map of violence she couldn’t read. Her throat went tight. What animals did that?
His amber eyes locked on her. “You’re awake.”
“I—” She cleared her throat. “I was cold. Always wakes me up.”
He grunted and turned back to whatever he was doing. Steam rose from a mug on the counter. She should look away. Should stop staring at his back. Should act normal instead of standing there gaping at the sight of a shirtless man in the kitchen. Instead she just stood there, staring like an idiot.
“There’s kasta.” He gestured to a pot on the heating unit without looking at her.
“Thank you.” She moved toward it. The kitchen wasn’t large. Passing him meant getting close enough to feel the heat radiating from his skin. Close enough to catch a scent that was earthy and warm and made her stomach do a weird flip.
Get a grip on yourself, girl.
She reached up to grab a mug from the shelf.
It was too big for her hands, made for someone his size but she didn’t care.
The way she felt, she could drink a bucket of the stuff and still not be properly awake.
The kasta was dark and bitter when she sipped it.
Nothing like coffee, but hot enough to burn her tongue in a good way.
Sighing in relief, she wrapped both hands around the mug and let the warmth seep into her frozen fingers. Then she looked up. He still hadn’t put on a shirt.
“Do you...” She gestured vaguely at his chest. “Aren’t you cold?”
“No.”
Right. Alien physiology, he must not feel the cold or something like a normal person. She took another sip and tried not to notice the way his muscles moved when he reached for his own mug. Tried and failed.
Movement outside the window caught her eye. There were bright streaks across the orange sky, too fast and too straight to be anything natural. “What’s that?”
He followed her gaze and shrugged. “The transport leaving.”
The mug slipped in her hands. The transport she’d arrived on was leaving. Right now. The transport arced across the sky and disappeared over the mountains. She was alone. The kasta tasted like ash in her mouth.
“They’ll be back in six weeks.” Goraath’s voice was flat.
Six weeks. Forty-two days. She set the mug down before she dropped it. “I should… I need to…”
What? What did she need to do?
“I need to decorate.” The words came out too bright. “Do you have any… I don’t know, greenery? Plants I could use? Or fabric scraps?”
He stared at her. “Decorate for what?”
“Christmas.”
His brow furrowed. “What’s Christmas?”
She gaped at him.
“It’s—don’t you know what Christmas is?”
“No.”
Right. Alien. Different planet. Different culture. She’d known that intellectually, but somehow it hadn’t clicked that he wouldn’t know about Earth holidays.
“It’s a celebration. On Earth. In winter.” She wrapped her hands around the mug again, needing the warmth. It was so frigging cold in here. “It’s about... hope. And light in the darkness. And gathering with family. We decorate, exchange gifts, make special food. It’s… it’s important.”
He took a long drink from his mug, those strange eyes never leaving her face. “Why would you celebrate the coldest, harshest season?”
“Because that’s when we need hope the most.”
Something flickered in his expression and he shrugged again. “We have our own midwinter celebration here.” He set his mug down with a solid thunk. “Perhaps you should learn about that instead of trying to recreate Earth traditions.”
Her spine stiffened. “I can do both.”
“You’re not on Earth anymore.”
“I know that.”
“Then adapt.”
Adapt. Just give up something that made her feel human and become someone else.
“Christmas is part of who I am.” Her voice stayed level through sheer force of will. “I’m not giving it up just because you don’t understand it.”
His jaw tightened. That tiny muscle at the corner pulsed. “This is my house. My world. You’re a guest here.”
“For six weeks,” she shot back. “And guests are allowed to have their own traditions.”
“Not when those traditions disrespect the culture they’re joining.”
She looked at him like he’d grown another head.
“How is celebrating Christmas disrespectful?”
“Because you’re refusing to integrate. Refusing to learn our ways.” He crossed his arms over his massive chest. “You arrive here expecting everything to change for you instead of changing yourself.”
Her face burned. “That’s not what I’m doing.”
“Isn’t it?”
“I just want to make this place feel a little less...” She gestured at the stark walls, the bare surfaces. “Less empty.”
“It’s not empty. It’s functional.”
“It’s cold.” He couldn’t argue with that, surely? Not when she was practically shivering.
“It’s honest.” His voice dropped lower. “We don’t hide behind decorations and false cheer. We accept the world as it is.”
“There’s nothing false about finding joy in hard times.” Her hands tightened on the mug. “My mom taught me that. Joy is a choice.”
His expression softened maybe, just for a second. It didn’t last. A second later the shutters came back down.
“Your mother isn’t here.”
The breath left her lungs. No. No, she wasn’t. Her mom was dead, buried three years ago in a grave Juni couldn’t afford to visit now because she’d lost everything. Her job, her apartment, her savings. All of it gone because she’d reported harassment and been punished for it. Her eyes burned.
“I know she’s not here.” The words came out thick. “But what she taught me is. And I’m not abandoning my culture’s traditions just because you think I should ‘adapt’.”
He was quiet as his gaze traveled over her face.
“Do what you want.” He turned and grabbed a shirt from the back of a chair. “But don’t expect me to participate.”
He pulled the shirt over his head and stalked out. The back door slammed shut behind him.
She stood alone in the kitchen, shaking. Not from cold this time. The kasta had gone lukewarm in her hands. Dumping it in the cleaning unit, she set the mug down with more force than necessary.
Fine. If he wanted her to adapt, she’d adapt. She’d learn about his stupid midwinter celebration, but she was also having Christmas. Even if she had to celebrate it alone.
The house was too quiet without him in it. She could hear her own breathing, the faint whistle of wind outside, nothing else.
Moving helped. Always had. She couldn’t do anything about Goraath’s shitty attitude or the isolation or the fact that she was so far from home, but she could make this space feel less like a cell.
She looked around. The main room had exposed beams. Perfect for hanging things.
If she could find things to hang. She started searching.
Carefully at first, aware that he’d told her not to touch his things.
She was pushing boundaries, but there had to be something she could use.
Fabric scraps, old rope, anything with texture or color.
A storage closet near the bathing room yielded a basket of what looked like mending supplies. Thread in various shades of brown and grey. A few pieces of worn fabric. Not festive. But it was something.
She sat at the table and started braiding scraps of fabric together.
Her fingers remembered the motions from childhood, her mom teaching her to make decorations from whatever they could afford.
Which had usually been nothing. We don’t need expensive things to make something beautiful, Juni-bug.
Her throat tightened again. She braided faster.
By the time the twin suns were fully up, she had a garland maybe three feet long. Pathetic compared to what she could have made with real supplies, but better than blank walls.
Dragging a chair under a beam, she climbed up, and started securing one end of the garland. The knot was tricky. She had to stretch, reaching as far as she could to loop the fabric around the rough wood. Almost there. Just a little more—
“What are you doing?”
The voice came from behind her. Deep. Unexpected. She jerked, lost her balance, and the chair tipped.
She fell.
Her stomach dropped and before she had time to think this is going to hurt, she collided with something warm and solid.
Strong hands caught her, one arm banding around her waist, the other beneath her thighs. Her hands grabbed for purchase and found bare skin over muscle. Wait… bare skin? She looked up and nearly stopped breathing.