Chapter 3 #2
The way he says my name makes heat pool low in my stomach. Which is probably not the appropriate response to having an injured alien in my garage.
But as I measure coffee and reheat pizza, I catch myself stealing glances at him in the microwave’s reflection. At the way the Christmas lights play across his pale skin. At the careful way he moves, like he’s trying to take up as little space as possible despite being built like a linebacker.
At the way he watches me move around my own kitchen, like every gesture is worth memorizing.
“How do you take your coffee?” I ask.
“However you prefer to prepare it.”
I glance at him. “That’s not an answer. Strong? Weak? Sweet?”
“I...” He looks almost embarrassed. “I have never had coffee.”
“Never?” The admission stops me cold. “What do you drink?”
“Xarian dietary preferences tend toward nutrient supplements. I have not had occasion to try many human beverages.”
There’s something oddly endearing about his careful honesty. “Well, then. We’re starting you off right.” I pour two cups, making his weaker than my usual engine oil strength. “Fair warning—coffee is an acquired taste.”
I carry both cups over, and he accepts his with both hands like I’m handing him something precious.
“It’s just coffee, Ja’war.”
“Perhaps. But it is the first coffee anyone has ever offered me.” He looks down at the dark liquid, then back at me. “That makes it considerably more than ‘just’ anything.”
The quiet sincerity in his voice makes my chest tight. He takes a careful sip, and I watch his expression change as he processes the unfamiliar taste.
“It is...” He pauses, searching for words. “Complex. Bitter, but with underlying warmth.”
“Not bad for a first-timer.”
I retrieve the pizza and put a slice on a plate for him. “More cultural exploration. Pizza. The cornerstone of American cuisine.”
He examines the slice with scientific curiosity, and I find myself oddly invested in his reaction. When he tastes it, something shifts in his expression.
“The combination of flavors is... unexpected,” he says thoughtfully. “And there is something else...”
“Something else?”
“Xarian senses are more acute than human. I can detect emotional resonance in prepared food.” Those blue eyes meet mine. “This tastes like someone who has spent years taking care of herself, but who offered this meal because she genuinely wanted to provide comfort.”
The words do something complicated to my chest. “That must make dinner parties interesting.”
“It makes meals shared with those we care about extraordinarily meaningful.” His voice drops lower, becomes more intimate. “This is the finest meal I have had in three winters.”
The statement hangs in the air between us, loaded with implications I’m not sure I’m ready to unpack. Because if my hastily reheated pizza rates as his finest meal in three years, what does that say about what he’s feeling?
What I’m feeling?
“Ja’war,” I say carefully, “when you say courier work is solitary...”
“I spend months alone between assignments. I deliver supplies to frontier colonies, research stations, places where human contact is rare.” There’s something vulnerable in his voice now. “I have not shared a meal with anyone in longer than I care to admit.”
The honest sincerity in his voice cuts straight through every defense I’ve built. “So you’ve been what, flying solo for years?”
“Yes. Courier work is solitary by nature.”
“Sounds lonely.”
Something shifts in his expression—vulnerability, carefully hidden loneliness. “It can be.”
The admission does something warm to my chest. There’s something about this careful, formal alien who flies between the stars alone that tugs at me.
“Well,” I say, turning back to my coffee, “tonight you’re not alone. We’re both stuck here until this storm passes.”
Something that might be hope flickers across his features. “I do not wish to impose—”
“You’re not imposing. You’re wounded, it’s Christmas Eve, and there’s a blizzard outside. Basic human decency says I feed you and make sure you don’t die on my floor.”
“Thank you, Fiona.”
The way he says my name makes heat pool low in my stomach. Careful, like he’s been practicing it.
“Don’t thank me yet. I haven’t even seen this ship of yours. For all we know, it’s completely fried and we’re both wasting our time.”
“Perhaps. But I have heard about your reputation for working miracles with determination and spare parts.” His voice drops to something almost intimate. “I have considerable faith in your abilities.”
The absolute confidence in his tone makes heat curl through my chest. When was the last time someone had that kind of faith in me?
“We’ll see,” I manage, turning back to my coffee before I do something stupid like ask what other abilities he has faith in.
Outside, the storm continues to rage, but inside my garage feels smaller somehow. More intimate. Like the blizzard has created a pocket of space and time where impossible things can happen.
Where seven-foot aliens can crash into your life and look at you like you’re the answer to every question they’ve been afraid to ask.
I steal another glance at Ja’war, taking in the way the Christmas lights play across his alien features, the careful way he cradles his injured arm, the intensity in those winter-blue eyes when he thinks I’m not looking.
A courier, he said. Flying alone between the stars, carrying critical supplies to people who need them.
The most romantic job anyone’s ever described to me.
Also the most dangerous, judging by the bullet wound.
I’m still trying to decide what to make of this impossible alien when I catch him looking at me with an expression so full of quiet gratitude that it makes my breath catch.
Maybe Christmas Eve doesn’t have to be about what I don’t have, I think, turning back to my coffee before I do something we’ll both regret.
Maybe this year it can be about seven-foot aliens who crash into your life and look at you like you’re capable of miracles.