Page 70 of Married to the Alien Mountain Man

“Oaken.”

I turned to find her behind me, just outside the house. She looked stricken, her face a greyish ghost of its usual rich brown. She looked just beyond me to where her ship had lain, and her eyes became wounds in her face.

I knew she’d hate me then. Scream at me. Maybe try to find another hammer to throw at my head.

I deserved it all and more.

But my wife did not do any of those things. She merely returned her gaze to me.

And then, she held out her hand. Stretching it, trembling, towards me.

Holding hands is an excellent way to provide comfort to your partner, to show affection, or just let them know you’re there for them.

I collapsed the distance between us in no time at all.

And took my wife’s hand in mine.

25

JAYA

Oaken led me back inside, murmuring soft words I barely heard. My ears were ringing. My head felt like it was stuffed with Terratribe II cotton. My tongue was ash.

And my ship was gone.

But the devastation I felt at that reality wasn’t anything close to what it would have been before I’d come here. I was hurting. Sad, scared.

But surviving.

Surviving, because a man with huge, strong, and achingly tender hands was holding mine now.

Oaken’s kitchen was a fucking disaster. Most of the roof had been ripped off. Cupboards hung open and empty, their contents smashed upon the floor. He pulled me through it all and opened the door to the bedroom on the other side of the house.

It was jarring, how perfect this room looked in comparison to the kitchen. This portion of the roof had not come off. The window remained intact. The bed was neatly made, the furniture precisely in place.

The old Jaya would have felt resentment at that. Bitter jealousy that my bed was gone, while his remained in perfect condition.

The new Jaya was only grateful that something that could bring Oaken comfort had survived.

“Sit,” Oaken whispered, easing me down onto the edge of the bed. I let him do it, my legs barely able to hold me up anymore.

The silence was strange after the cacophony of the storm. It made everything Oaken did oddly loud. The rustle of bedding as he wrapped the bed’s blanket tightly around my shoulders. The open and shut of a drawer. Water running somewhere, and then the heavy rhythm of his boots returning.

I shivered and gasped when a damp cloth touched my cheek. My skin felt too raw, too sensitive. But Oaken’s touch was so delicate, so careful, so kind. The tenderest of ministrations.

Thoroughly, he cleaned my face, taking care around stinging scratches I didn’t even know that I had. He gently drew the cloth along my lips, my cheeks, my ears. Down my throat to my collarbones. He cleaned each one of my fingers, then traced the lines of my palms.

“It’s OK,” I croaked, finally finding my voice. “I’m OK. Go find the animals. Make sure they’re alright.”

Nali had fallen asleep curled up in the cellar, but the bracku and shuldu were still out there somewhere.

“Are you certain?” Oaken asked. His knuckles bumped my cheek. His thumb stroked the curving indent below my eye.

“Yeah. I’ll be OK.”

He got down on one knee before me. My eyes ached. I’d seen him down on one knee before.

Before all of this.

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