1. Felicity #2
"In human society, physical contact requires explicit permission," I explain, keeping my tone matter-of-fact. "Especially between men and women who don't know each other well. What might seem like a casual touch to you could be interpreted very differently by a human woman."
As I speak, Vren watches me intently. His golden eyes never leave my face, following every expression and movement with a focus that's both flattering and disconcerting. I can feel his gaze on me, heating my skin and making me feel things I have no business feeling during work hours.
"Physical boundaries are important to humans," I continue, trying to ignore the way my heart races under his scrutiny. "We value our personal space and—"
"Felicity," he says suddenly, breaking my train of thought.
The sound of my name in his deep voice sends an unwelcome thrill through me. "Yes?" I reply, trying to maintain my composure.
"I have something to ask you," he says.
I put my tablet down, giving him my full attention. This is my job, after all—to help aliens navigate their confusion about Earth. "Of course, Vren, you can ask me anything."
He takes a deep breath before speaking, his chest expanding impressively beneath his fitted shirt. "I want to mate with you."
I blink, certain I've misheard. I was expecting something along the lines of questions about human currency or maybe some confusion about our complex social hierarchies. But not this—not such a direct proposition delivered in that serious, resonant voice.
I know his English skills are excellent—his file indicates native-level proficiency—but surely this is a translation error.
"I'm sorry?" I ask, buying time to process his words.
"I want to mate with you," he repeats, his golden eyes locked onto mine with an intensity that leaves no doubt about his meaning.
My face burns, heat rushing to my cheeks in a blush I can't control. This is exactly the sort of cross-cultural misunderstanding our training covered, but experiencing it firsthand is entirely different from the sterile classroom discussions.
"Were you not listening to what I just said about consent and appropriate interactions?" The words come out sharper than I intend, defensive in my embarrassment. "This is exactly the kind of inappropriate approach I was talking about."
The alien doesn't seem to fully realize how his directness violates human social norms, but to his credit, remorse immediately crosses his features.
"I'm sorry," he apologizes, his expression genuinely contrite.
"I have been too forward. On Zexia, directness is valued when one feels a. .. connection."
His apology takes some of the sting from the awkward moment, but my professional composure remains shaken. I'm both flustered by his proposition and, more disturbingly, aware of an undeniable flutter of attraction I feel in response.
I wish my cheeks would stop burning as I force myself back to the safety of procedure, continuing to go through the list of topics we need to cover. "Moving on," I say firmly, tapping my tablet with more force than necessary. "I take it you already have your housing arrangements taken care of?"
He seems to accept the change of subject, though his eyes still hold a warmth that suggests he isn't entirely deterred. "A motel nearby," he says. "Temporary housing until permanent apartments become available."
I press my lips together, frustration momentarily overriding my embarrassment.
The government consistently underdelivers on its promises to immigrants—whether they're human refugees or aliens who've traveled light-years to reach us.
"Well, I guess that's better than nothing," I say, unable to keep the disapproval from my voice.
I hand him a stack of pamphlets, our fingers brushing briefly in a contact that sends an inappropriate spark through my nervous system. "These should help you settle in and adjust to life on Earth. They cover everything from public transportation to banking to emergency services."
I stand up to signal the end of our meeting, hoping to regain control of the interaction and my inexplicable reactions. But Vren doesn't move. Instead, he looks at me with an expression that combines curiosity, interest, and something hungrier that makes my heart race all over again.
I swallow hard, trying to ignore the traitorous thoughts running through my mind.
I can't deny the attraction I feel towards him, but I can't let either of us act on it.
I'm his caseworker, his official guide to Earth society.
It's unethical and inappropriate to even consider anything beyond our professional relationship.
But as Vren finally stands, his height towering over me in a way that should be intimidating but somehow isn't, my body reacts to him in a way that I can't ignore or rationalize away.
I can feel my heart pounding in my chest as he steps closer, the scent of him—something like cedar and spice—filling my senses.
"Vren," I say, trying to keep my voice steady. "You need to leave. I have other appointments waiting."
But he doesn't move immediately. Instead, he reaches out and gently, so gently I can barely feel it, brushes a strand of hair away from my face. The gesture is unexpectedly tender from such a powerful being. I shiver at the touch, my body betraying me in a way that I can't understand or control.
"Please," I say, no longer certain if I'm asking him to leave or asking him to stay. "I have other appointments."
Something in my tone must finally register because he nods and steps back. "OK," he says, letting his hand fall to his side. "I will go, but I know I will see you again, Felicity Stone."
The way he says my full name—like it's something precious, something he wants to savor—sends another unwelcome flutter through me. "I'm sure you will," I say with a nervous laugh that sounds fake even to my own ears. "For your follow-up appointment next week."
A smile touches his lips, as if he understands something I don't. "Yes. For that."
Without another word, the Zexian warrior leaves my office, clutching the bundle of forms and pamphlets I've given him, ready to dive into the exciting world of US bureaucracy. The door closes behind him, and I sink back into my chair, trying to make sense of what has just happened.
I've met dozens of aliens from across the galaxy. I've maintained professional relationships with all of them. None has affected me the way Vren has in just one meeting. None has made me question my own reactions, my own professionalism.
I take a deep breath, straightening the items on my desk in a futile attempt to restore order to my thoughts. Whatever this strange attraction is, I'll have to overcome it. I'm a professional, and Vren is my client. That's all there can be between us.
But, no matter how I try to distract myself, I can't shake the feeling that something significant has shifted in my carefully ordered world—something that won't be easily filed away or forgotten with the simple closing of a case file.