Page 11 of Alien Attachment
“Fine,” I concede with poor grace. “But stay back and don’t touch anything. I mean it. Some of that equipment is delicate, and I don’t need you accidentally crushing something vital with those...” I gesture vaguely at his tentacles.
He nods solemnly, and I grab my toolkit from its storage locker before heading to the access ladder that leads to the lower deck. Jhorn follows, moving with that strange, silent grace that makes the hairs on my neck stand up. How can something so large make so little noise? It’s like being stalked by a very polite, very attractive predator.
The lower deck is cramped and dimly lit, mostly filled with the bulk of the engines and the labyrinthine network of pipes, conduits, and control systems that keep the Nomad flying. The air down here is warmer, thick with the smell of metal and lubricants and the constant hum of machinery. I make my way to panel 17-B, the beam of my work light cutting through the shadows.
“Hold this,” I say, thrusting the light at Jhorn before I can think better of it. He takes it without comment, directing the beam exactly where I need it without being asked. It’s annoyingly helpful, and I try to ignore how his fingers brush mine during the handoff, or how the brief contact sends a jolt of awareness through me.
I remove the panel cover, revealing the stabilizer housing beneath. Sure enough, there’s a web of fine cracks spreading across the metal casing, likely from the stress of our emergency jump. If it fails during transit, we could end up smeared across half a parsec—not exactly the death I’d planned for myself.
“Gonna need the molecular bonder,” I mutter, reaching blindly into my toolkit. Before I can find it, a tentacle extends into the kit and retrieves the exact tool I need, offering it to me with gentle precision.
I freeze, staring at the tentacle holding my bonder. It hovers patiently, the tool balanced in its grip like an offering.
“You said you needed this,” Jhorn says quietly, and there’s something almost uncertain in his voice, like he’s not sure if he’s overstepped.
“I didn’t ask for your help,” I snap, snatching the tool from him, though I can’t deny it’s exactly what I needed. “And I definitely didn’t ask for... for those things to start grabbing stuff.”
The tentacle withdraws immediately, curling back around his torso like I’ve slapped it. Through our bond, I feel a wave of shame so intense it makes my chest tight. He doesn’t speak, but his distress is palpable, a dark current flowing between us that makes me feel like I’ve just kicked a puppy.
I turn back to the stabilizer, trying to ignore the guilt gnawing at me. It’s not my fault he’s so sensitive. It’s not my fault we’re bonded. It’s not my fault he’s... whatever he is.
I activate the bonder, its blue light illuminating the cracks as I begin the painstaking process of sealing them. The work requires concentration, each pass of the tool needing to be precise and steady. I lose myself in the rhythm of it, almost forgetting Jhorn’s presence until the ship suddenly lurches.
“What the—” I start, but the words die in my throat as the Nomad shudders violently. I’m thrown off balance, the bonder slipping from my grip as I grab for a handhold that isn’t there.
“Warning,” Lila’s voice announces, eerily calm amid the chaos. “Proximity alert. Micrometeoroid shower detected. Impact imminent.”
The ship rocks again as the first particles hit, pinging against the hull like deadly hail. I lunge for the safety rail, but my fingers slip on the smooth metal, sweat-slick from the heat and exertion. For one heart-stopping moment, I’m falling toward the exposed engine components, sharp edges and hot surfaces rushing up to meet me.
Then something wraps around my waist, halting my descent with gentle but implacable strength. More tentacles extend, creating a living cage around me as Jhorn pulls me against his chest, his body a shield between me and the violently shaking deck. I’m pressed against the solid warmth of him, and through the thin fabric of our jumpsuits, I can feel every contour of his alien physique—the dual heartbeats hammering against his ribs, the heat radiating from his skin, the way his muscles flex as he adjusts his position to better protect me.
“I have you,” he murmurs, his voice vibrating through me where our bodies touch, low and intimate in a way that makes my pulse quicken for reasons that have nothing to do with fear. “You are safe.”
The ship continues to buck and shudder as the meteoroid shower passes. Jhorn’s tentacles adjust with each movement, absorbing the impacts, keeping me steady in the midst of chaos. I should be terrified, trapped in the embrace of an alien I barely know. Instead, I feel... secure. Protected. And uncomfortably aware of how perfectly I fit against him, how right it feels to be held like this.
Through our bond flows nothing but his fierce determination to protect me, his relief that I’m unharmed, his complete focus on my safety. It’s overwhelming. Terrifying in its intensity. And undeniably genuine.
The shaking gradually subsides as the shower passes. Lila’s voice returns: “Meteoroid shower clearing. Minor hull damagedetected. No breaches. Recommend completing current repairs before proceeding.”
Jhorn doesn’t immediately release me. His tentacles remain wrapped around my waist, my shoulders, my arms—not constraining, but supporting. I can feel his breath against my hair, the way his body gradually relaxes as the danger passes. For a moment, we stay like that, suspended in something that feels dangerously close to intimacy.
“You can let go now,” I say, my voice harsher than I intended. “I’m fine.”
He releases me immediately, tentacles withdrawing except for the one permanent connection at my wrist. I step away, putting distance between us, trying to ignore the lingering sensation of his touch and the way my body misses the warmth of his contact.
“I don’t need you to bodyguard me every five seconds,” I snap, bending to retrieve the fallen bonder. My hands are shaking, though whether from the near-fall or the intensity of his protection—or the unwelcome awareness of how good it felt to be held—I’m not sure. “I’ve survived plenty of meteoroid showers before you came along.”
“But you were falling,” he says, confusion evident in his voice and through our bond. “You would have been injured. Severely.”
“That’s not the point!” I turn to face him, frustration boiling over. “The point is that I don’t want you... touching me all the time. I don’t want you in my head, feeling everything I feel. I don’t want this!” I gesture to the tentacle connecting us, to the space between us that still hums with the memory of contact.
He flinches as if I’ve struck him, and the pain that radiates through our bond makes me gasp. It’s raw, primal—the agony of rejection cutting deeper than any physical wound.
“But you...” he begins, his voice softer now, uncertain. “You are fragile. And precious.”
The words hit me like a physical blow. There’s no guile in them, no manipulation—just a simple, devastating truth as he sees it. Through our connection, I feel his absolute conviction, his complete bewilderment that I could object to being protected, being valued.
“I’m not precious,” I say, the words coming out rougher than intended. “I’m a courier. I haul cargo for a living. I sleep in my ship and eat synthetic food and haven’t had a real conversation with another human being in months. There’s nothing precious about me.”
