3. Felicity
Chapter three
Felicity
I can't keep him out of my mind.
The evening breeze cools my flushed cheeks as I walk away from Vren's motel, my steps quickening with each block that separates us.
It takes every ounce of willpower not to look back when I leave him standing there, tall and imposing against the backdrop of that decaying building.
Something in his golden eyes has nearly broken my professional resolve.
Three blocks away, I finally slow my pace, allowing myself to process what has just happened.
The attraction I feel toward him is undeniable and completely inappropriate.
I've never crossed professional boundaries before, never even been tempted to.
Five years of casework with beings from across the galaxy, and suddenly one purple-skinned warrior has me questioning everything I thought I knew about myself.
"Get it together, Felicity," I mutter.
My apartment welcomes me with familiar silence when I finally arrive home.
I kick off my sensible work heels, the relief immediate as my sore feet sink into the plush carpet.
The framed photos on my wall tell the story of a life carefully constructed: graduation from the Interplanetary Relations program at Georgetown, my first day at Border Control, weekends with friends at the lake. A good life. A predictable life.
So why does it suddenly feel so damn incomplete?
As I prepare a simple dinner, my thoughts circle back to the motel where I've left Vren.
My heart twinges with a complicated mixture of emotions.
I can't help but pity the Zexians who made the long journey here only to be treated like second-class citizens.
That's why I chose immigration work in the first place—to help make people's lives better, to be the friendly face in an overwhelming bureaucracy.
Even if they are aliens. Even if they're an alien warrior race who only protect Earth because we marry off our women to them once a year in those elaborate Tribute ceremonies.
I stab at my pasta more forcefully than necessary.
The Zexian protection agreement has saved Earth from at least two potential invasions in the last decade.
The arrangement is necessary, I get that.
And after an incident a few years ago when the ceremonies had been temporarily suspended—something about a human bride breaking protocol—they're finally starting again with renewed diplomatic importance.
I never really pay much attention to the politics of it all. I'm too busy with the day-to-day administration involved with intergalactic customs and immigration—helping real people navigate real problems. The Tribute ceremonies are just propaganda as far as my daily life is concerned.
I find myself wondering what Vren is doing in that dismal motel room. Is he comfortable? Does the bed even fit his tall frame? Has anyone shown him how to operate Earth appliances?
This is ridiculous. He's just another client. I'm lying to myself.
***
The week passes with excruciating slowness, each hour marked by another appointment with a new alien trying to find their place on Earth.
They aren't all Zexians; a few other intelligent species are attempting to make a life here too.
The Aurelians with their golden crystalline skin that refracts light in rainbow patterns.
The Nechians whose four arms make them particularly valuable for manual labor.
I'm good at my job. I know how to put nervous newcomers at ease, how to explain Earth customs without condescension, how to guide them through the labyrinthine process of becoming legal residents.
I take pride in being the kind of immigration officer I wish my own grandparents had encountered when they'd arrived from the Philippines decades ago.
But despite my best efforts to remain focused, every time I glimpse a flash of purple skin in the hallway or catch the distinctive cedar-spice scent that seems particular to Zexians, my heart skips a beat before I realize it isn't him.
Vren.
His name has become a constant whisper in the back of my mind, intruding on my thoughts at the most inappropriate moments.
During staff meetings when I should be paying attention to policy updates.
During my morning shower when steam clouds the bathroom mirror.
During my evening runs when endorphins lower my usual defenses.
By Thursday, I've convinced myself that my fixation is simply the result of our unusual first meeting.
How could he have been so forward? The cultural sensitivity training all immigrants receive clearly explains human social boundaries.
No other Zexian I've encountered has bluntly proposed mating within minutes of introduction.
So why can't I stop thinking about the way his golden eyes held mine, as if he could see straight through my professional facade to the woman beneath?
"You look like you're lost in space," a voice says, cutting through my reverie.
I look up to see my boss, Morgan, standing in my office doorway.
A no-nonsense woman with short, blonde hair and a sharp gaze that misses nothing, Morgan has been with the department since first contact.
Her pantsuit is impeccably pressed as always, her posture military-straight despite the long hours we all work.
I straighten instinctively, trying to hide my distraction. "Just reviewing some case notes," I lie, quickly closing the personnel file I've been staring at for the past ten minutes—Vren's file, which I have absolutely no legitimate reason to be examining.
"Everything okay?" she asks, her eyes darting to the door where my most recent client—a nervous Nechian applying for a study visa—has exited moments before.
I nod silently, then add, "Just some trouble keeping up with my caseload. Lots of new applicants every day."
Morgan raises an eyebrow but doesn't push the issue. In the five years I've worked under her, she's never been one for personal conversations. Results are what matter to her, and until now, I've always delivered.
"Well, I just wanted to let you know that we're getting some new shipments of aliens this week.
The transport from Proxima Centauri arrives tomorrow, and the one from the Zexian outpost in our solar system lands on Saturday.
" She consults her tablet briefly. "You'll need to help them get settled in. Orientation sessions all next week."
My pulse quickens traitorously. "More Zexians?" I ask, striving for professional neutrality while my treacherous heart accelerates.
"Mostly," Morgan confirms. "About seventy percent of the transport. The rest are various allied species."
My heart sinks and soars simultaneously in a confusing emotional cocktail. I'm not going to escape the purple flesh and golden eyes anytime soon—but do I actually want to?
"I understand," I say, trying to keep my voice steady as I pull up my calendar. "I'll make sure my schedule is clear for the orientations."
Morgan gives me a curt nod. "Things have to be perfect, especially with the new Tribute ceremony coming up in a few months. The diplomatic corps is watching our department closely."
"I know," I say. How could I forget? Just because I don't particularly care about the ceremony doesn't mean I can escape the constant barrage of ads for it—the billboards showing happy human-Zexian couples, the subway posters calling for "Earth's finest women" to consider volunteering, the promotional videos playing in government building lobbies.
Morgan lingers a moment longer than necessary, her shrewd eyes assessing me. For one paranoid moment, I wonder if she can somehow read my inappropriate thoughts about Vren.
"The Zexians are important allies," she finally says. "But they're still alien, with alien values and motivations. Remember that." With that cryptic warning, she turns and leaves, the click of her heels fading down the corridor.
I let out a long sigh and lean back in my chair, her warning echoing in my mind.
Of course the Zexians are alien—their purple skin and golden eyes make that impossible to forget.
Yet something about Vren feels startlingly familiar, as if some part of me recognizes some part of him on a level deeper than physical appearance.
"Ridiculous," I tell myself firmly.
I turn to my computer and pull up my appointment calendar, scrolling through the upcoming weeks. My next scheduled meeting with Vren is still nine days away—a standard follow-up to ensure he is adjusting properly to Earth and has no issues with his temporary documentation.
Nine days.
Maybe by then, these strange feelings will have faded. Maybe the inexplicable pull I feel toward him will dissipate with time and distance. Maybe he'll have found some other human woman more receptive to his direct approach...
The thought makes something twist uncomfortably in my chest. Jealousy? That's absurd. I have no claim on him, no reason to care if he pursues someone else. In fact, it would be better for everyone if he did—someone who isn't professionally obligated to maintain boundaries.
So why does the mere thought of him with another woman make me want to throw something?
I push out of my chair with more force than necessary and walk out of my office. I need to clear my head. The restlessness that has plagued me all week won't let up, and I just can't shake the thoughts of Vren from my mind.
The government complex is massive, housing dozens of departments related to extraterrestrial affairs.
I take the elevator down to the main floor, nodding politely to the various humans and aliens I pass.
Everyone seems purposeful, engaged with their work.
No one else appears to be having an existential crisis over inappropriate attraction to a client.